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ROLAND’S DAUGHTER 


A ISTmETEENTH-OENTURY MAIDEN. 



JULIA McNAIR WRIGHT, 

n 

AUTHOR OP 

‘‘Among the Alaskans," ‘‘Almost a Nun,” "Mr. Standfast’s Journey,” etc. 


I 




‘‘These are not the romantic times 
So beautiful in Spenser’s rhymes. 

So dazzling to the dreaming boy; 

Ours are the days of fact, not fable — 

Of knights, but not of the Round Table.” 



PHILADELPHIA: 

PRESBYTERIAN BOARD OF PUBLICATION, 

No. 1334 CHESTNUT STREET. 



COPYRIGHT, 1885, BY 

THE TRUSTEES OF THE 

PRESBYTERIAN BOARD OF PUBLICATION. 


All Rights Reserved. 


Westcott & Thomson, 
Slereotypers and BUecirotyfyers, Philada. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 1. 

PA6B 

What Came op an Interview 5 

CHAPTER 11. 

Miss Roland Receives a Letter 20 

CHAPTER 111. 

Miss Roland Escapes 37 

CHAPTER IV. 

“Me and Thomas Henry” 58 

CHAPTER V. 

The Head op the Family 87 

CHAPTER VI. 

The Other Members op the Family 108 

CHAPTER VII. 

A Halp Brother 135 

CHAPTER VIII. 

The Modern Joan 154 


8 


4 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER IX. 

PAGE 

Mistress Quincey to the Rescue 169 

CHAPTER X. 

“Escape for thy Life” 189 

CHAPTER XI. 

Upon the Sands 203 

CHAPTER Xn. 

A Fisher-Maid 218 

CHAPTER XIII. 

The Cottage on the Marshes 231 

CHAPTER XIV. 

In the Falling Rain 245 

CHAPTER XV. 

The Wreck of the Siren 259 

CHAPTER XYI. 

A Question of Sacrifices 274 

CHAPTER XVII. 

The Ebbing of the Tide 289 


CHAPTER XVin. 


All Alone in the Night 


305 


ROLAND’S DAUGHTER 


CHAPTER I. 

WHAT CAME OF AN INTERVIEW. 

“ But blooming childhood will not always last, 

And storms will rise e’en on a tideless sea.” 

T HAVE sent for you, Miss Roland, to speak 

J- on a subject that demands instant and care- 
ful attention. I find myself in a very painful 
position in regard to you. I have been treated 
in a most shameful and unprecedented manner; 
it is necessary for you at once to put matters 
on a more honest footing.” 

It was a formidable beginning, and the speaker 
was a formidable person. Her features, eyes, 
tones, manner, were distinctly suggestive of a 
whole armory of sharp steel instruments of 
keenest edge. 

Miss Roland, at this juncture, should have 
been a person of mature age skilled in the 
noble art of self-defence and well panoplied in 
armor of proof. On the contrary. Miss Roland 


6 


ROLAND’S DAUGHTER. 


was — thirteen. She was well grown for her age, 
but her yellow hair was braided in a thick club 
with curling ends which hung down about her 
waist, and over her square white forehead this 
yellow hair disported itself in very silly and 
babyish rings, while Miss Roland’s mouth 
looked ready to laugh or cry on the smallest 
provocation. It would have been needful to 
pronounce her a hopeless, helpless case and 
deliver her at once to the power of her adver- 
sary had it not been that Miss Roland’s large 
gray eyes could grow jet-black on the instant, 
her pretty, arched black brows could draw them- 
selves into a straight line, and there was also a 
very decisive straight line from the top of her 
white forehead to the tip of her dimpled chin ; 
all of which items suggested to a close student 
of physiognomy that Miss Roland, despite her 
insignificant age, curls, dimples, fair skin and 
flexible mouth, might be competent to do some 
battle in her own behalf, or even in behalf of 
an idea. At this moment she was not at all 
dashed by Miss Cade’s allocution. She had 
not come into the presence of authority expect- 
ing any commendation, rewards of merit or 
moral sugar-plums; she had looked for an at- 
tack, and it was only a little fiercer than she 
had anticipated, that was all. 

‘‘Yes, madam?” she said, as all the pupils 
said when addressed by Miss Cade. 


WHAT CAME OF AN INTERVIEW. 


7 


“ It is now three years since your father 
brought you here and arranged that for three 
hundred and fifty dollars a year I should pro- 
vide you tuition, lights, fuel, washing, clothing 
and the entire year’s board.” 

This statement was incontrovertible, and Miss 
Roland regarded Miss Cade with a tranquil eye. 

“I wish you distinctly to understand,” con- 
tinued Miss Cade, that there are no bills which 
should be so promptly and cheerfully paid as 
school-bills. Nothing else for which money is 
given is so valuable as instruction ; in no other 
case is so much bestowed for so small a compen- 
sation as in the case of teacher and pupil. For 
a little paltry, perishable money the teacher 
gives mental, moral and religious culture, things 
imperishable and eternal. To defraud a teacher 
is the worst and very meanest form of fraud. 
When the teacher is a woman, a lady depend- 
ent on her exertions in her school for her main- 
tenance, any deficiency or delay in regard to the 
payment of her bills becomes a most monstrous, 
outrageous injustice. Your father informed me 
that he was a teacher, a professor, a Latin Puo- 
FESSOB IN A College, and naturally I expected 
from him the most scrupulous uprightness in 
dealing. For two years all was according to 
agreement, but I desire to inform you that for 
the last year I have not received a single penny 
on your bills. I have written to your father re- 


8 


ROLAND^ S DAUGHTER. 


peatedly in the most urgent terms, and I have 
not had a word of reply. Do you understand 
that for a year, for your whole living, all your 
expenses, your tuition, board and clothes, you 
have been entirely dependent upon my char- 
ityr 

At this unexpected revelation Miss Roland’s 
eyes became jet-black ; she stood dumb. 

“ It is quite evident that I cannot have thus 
thrust on me the care of a stranger. My estab- 
lishment is not an orphan asylum. I will not 
be tricked and cheated into charity. Evidently, 
your father has abandoned you. You are not 
old enough nor educated sufficiently to teach, 
but you are strong and healthy. So far as I 
can see, there is but one thing for you to do, 
and that is to get a place at service and use 
your wages in repaying me the three hundred 
and fifty dollars that you are in my debt.” 

There was a brief silence. In that silence 
Miss Roland put her ideas in order. She was 
but thirteen, but she was a diligent reader. She 
always read the newspapers when she could lay 
her hands upon them. She thought also of what 
she read, and she listened to the conversation of 
older people. Quickly rallying from the shock 
of the onset, she found her voice for a reply that 
Miss Cade had not anticipated : 

‘‘ The debt you mention is not mine. I am a 
minor, and I cannot contract a debt; nor am I 


WHAT CAME OF AN INTERVIEW. 


9 


responsible for debts which I could not contract. 
If I did go out to service, you would have no 
legal right to my wages ; for you have no au- 
thority over me as a guardian and the contract 
you made was with my father. If it had been 
left to me, I should rather starve than be in 
debt ; and it is quite true that I have no claim 
on you and that it is not your duty to support 
me. I will find a place, as you say ; but, as to 
the wages I earn, I shall keep that for clothes. 
Perhaps you do not remember that, while for 
two years you got me the plainest and coarsest 
clothes, for the last year you have bought for 
me nothing.” 

These two hostile forces were now in full bat- 
tle-array ; each had thrown down her glove and 
stood in expectant attitude. 

There was a little pause of suspense. Each 
considered. Said Miss Poland, 

“ I will go to Mrs. Villeroy ; she is the only 
friend I have had since I came here. I will ask 
her to let me help her with the children, and I 
shall be worth my board and clothes, at least.” 

‘‘This is all very distressing,” replied Miss 
Cade; “I am very sorry for you. If you go 
to Mrs. Villeroy, unless you give her all your 
time, you will be of no use to her ; and if you 
give her all your time, what will you do for 
schooling? Will you grow up with no more 
education than you have now ? That would be 


10 


ROLAND DAUGHTER, 


shocking. And then you will put Mrs. Villeroy 
in a very trying position. She will be too kind 
to refuse you ; yet if she takes you as a servant, 
how many in the congregation will criticise and 
condemn it as extravagance ! If she adopts you 
as one of the family, they will be yet more crit- 
ical. I should be very sorry for you to put our 
minister’s wife in an unpleasant position,” con- 
cluded Miss Cade, diplomatically. 

I should risk it before I went out as some 
one’s maid-of-all-work or to wait at table in a 
restaurant,” replied Miss Roland. 

“ I can do better for you than that,” said Miss 
Cade. 

‘‘But I don’t want charity,” answered Miss 
Roland. 

“We will make it business,” said Miss Cade, 
who had now reached the point at which she 
had been aiming from the opening of the inter- 
view. “ You can remain here and have your 
board, clothes and tuition, as you always have 
had, but you will pay for them by helping me. 
I have agreed to receive two little girls, twin- 
sisters, six years old ; you will share their room, 
dress them, go out with them, teach them their 
lessons, mend their clothes. You will continue 
your studies in history, grammar and French. 
You can learn your lessons in the evening when 
the twins are in bed, also when you are watch- 
ing them play in the garden or square. You 


WHAT CAME OF AN INTERVIEW. 


11 


must get up an hour earlier in the morning and 
dust the parlor and set the table, and on Satur- 
days you must sweep the parlor and clean the 
silver, in addition to attending to your own room 
and doing your own and the twins’ mending.” 

‘‘I shall earn all that I get,” replied Miss 
Koland, dryly. 

‘‘ You will get all that you earn,” retorted 
Miss Cade, sharply. 

Miss Roland meditatively faced her future as 
girls of thirteen do not face it unless they have 
been largely flung back on themselves and their 
own resources, and thus made older than their 
years. The life offered her was one of unmiti- 
gated labor and drudgery, but then she was 
exceptionally strong and she learned with un- 
usual quickness. Four years of this hardship 
spent where she could have books and teachers 
would render her competent for a teacher’s po- 
sition, and she could then make her own way in 
the world. Suppose it should be even flve years : 
people were not so very old at eighteen. Even 
at that advanced period the most of their lives 
still lay before them. She could endure for the 
present for the sake of doing by and by. As for 
the twins, she had an undeniable ‘‘ faculty ” with 
children, and they would give her practice in 
teaching and training. If it was her fate to be 
a pedagoguess, she might just as well prepare 
herself for her vocation. 


12 


RQLAND^S DAUGHTER. 


“Very well, madam,’’ she said, after brief 
reflection, to her preceptress. 

“ The twins will be here to-night ; you will 
make ready your room for them as soon as your 
lessons are over.” 

Then did Miss Roland perceive that the whole 
plan had been to change her from the footing of 
a pupil to that of pupil-teacher and assistant 
chambermaid. All Miss Cade’s talk about find- 
ing a place at service had been merely a quasi 
threat to bring Miss Roland into an amenable 
frame of mind. 

“And I shall earn what I have ?” she asked. 

“ That is understood.” 

“Also that I cannot go in rags ?” 

“ You never have been in rags,” said Miss 
Cade, tartly. 

Miss Roland regarded her shoe : there was a 
hole in its toe. 

The interview was ended, and Miss Roland 
retired to conclude preparations for her French 
lesson. French was Miss Cade’s forte ; she kept 
a “ first-class French boarding-school.” Madame 
Malot, from Paris, kept a French boarding-school 
around the corner, but Miss Cade knew quite 
well that Madame Malot could not compare with 
herself as a teacher of Gallic tongues. “No 
Frenchwoman knows how to teach French,” 
said Miss ‘Cade. She equally scorned the in- 
structions of certain teachers who had been 


WHAT CAME OF AN INTEBVIEW. 13 

several years in France. In fact, her scholas- 
tic credo was short : “ There is no language but 
the French language, and Miss Cade is its proph- 
et.’^ If she could have made a coat-of-arms for 
herself, it would have been a shield livre-form, 
sabled with the irregular verbs ; her pupils 
would have added thereto a demi-griffin gules. 
Whether Miss Cade’s French would have passed 
for Parisian on the streets of Paris had not been 
proved, but she succeeded in producing pupils 
who could read it as fast as they could read 
English, and who supposed that they could also 
write and speak it. When Professor Poland 
brought his daughter to her, he had suggested 
that she should be taught Latin. To him the 
tongue of Cicero was the one tongue in the uni- 
verse. Greek he tolerated ; German had some 
good critical works ; English he regretted being 
obliged to speak to make himself intelligible 
concerning daily affairs ; but Latin was the one 
noble tongue fit for men and angels. Miss 
Cade assured him that French was much more 
suitable to a lady, and much more useful if Miss 
Poland should ever teach. 

“Madam,” said the professor, with dignity, 
“my only daughter will not be thrown upon 
her own resources.” 

However, it was agreed that Miss Poland 
should study French; but now, within three 
years, the girl who was never to be cast upon 


14 


BOLAND DAUGHTER. 


her own resources had become Miss Cade’s pu- 
pil-teacher, child’s nurse, nursery-governess, sec- 
ond assistant chambermaid. How had this all 
happened ? Margareth Roland knew better 
than to ask herself. Was she a girl to go 
into her classes with red eyes and set all the 
other girls wondering what she had been cry- 
ing about ? By no means. If she had troubles, 
she could at least keep them, as some people 
keep treasures, locked away in secret places. 
Are troubles ever treasures ? Can all these 
tears, can all these sharp wounds that draw 
blood in secret, be as chaplets of pearls and 
diamonds, of rubies and opals, to deck the soul ? 
Is there any secret alchemy for sorrow, whereby 
sighs and weeping and pain can be transmuted 
into glorious adornments for the spirit? Miss 
Roland had not considered such abstruse ques- 
tions ; she knew that if she stopped to consider 
her present troubles they would unfit her for 
present duties — namely, the French lesson, and 
the final examination in geography, and the pre- 
paring of the room for the twins. To these she 
devoted herself. 

But at last there came an hour when the les- 
sons were done and the room was in order; and 
it was five o’clock on a June afternoon, and she 
had time to sit down and ask how all this had 
come upon her — how, from the irresponsible 
little girl of yesterday, she had become the 


WHAT CAME OF AN INTERVIEW. 


15 


self-supporting young woman of to-day. Why 
was it that she was not lamenting her disap- 
peared father in a passion of tears, sure that 
he must be dead ? Last year she had had but 
two letters from him, written from different 
places ; this year she had had none. Miss 
Cade had written to the college where he had 
been professor three years before, but had re- 
ceived curt answer that he had not been con- 
nected with the institution for a year past. 

Margareth Roland sat down to account to her- 
self for all this. She brought her past to testify 
at the bar of memory. Fact after fact was stated 
in the tribunal of her own mind ; the facts cov- 
ered her life for ten years past. Her reason, as 
a judge sitting in equity, when all were set forth, 
summed up the evidence and pronounced decis- 
ion. Margareth knew what was the root of the 
difficulty : it was another of the long roll of cases 
against strong drink. The Latin professor, with 
all his learning, birth, breeding, stately manners, 
effusive speech, was now and again in possession 
of a demon. Hereby, no doubt, he had lost his 
professorship, as Margareth remembered one had 
been lost before. Also, in such state of periodic 
insanity, he had used up the income — or perhaps 
the capital — of that little property left in his hands 
by her mother for Margareth’s use. She knew 
what it was ; she had heard them say when her 
mother died, three years before, that “ Margareth 


16 


ROLAND^ S DAUGHTER. 


would have four hundred a year unless her father 
made away with it/’ Perhaps he had made 
away with it. Or perhaps, finding himself hard 
pressed by the enemy, he had in self-defence for- 
tified himself in some asylum for reforming him- 
self, of necessity using Margareth’s income to 
pay his way. Then, when he should reform 
and come out free once more and take a high 
position, he would make all this up to Marga- 
reth. 

How needful it was for her to see to it that 
when he came to himself and sought her she 
should be a daughter according to his hopes, 
well educated, well mannered, all that he ad- 
mired ! If he were dead, Margareth knew she 
would have heard of it in some way ; it would 
have been in the papers or some one would have 
written. Evidently, he was in hiding, trying to 
reform, or seeking a new place, using her income 
because he must until he secured a salary again. 
Then all would be right ; he would make it up. 
Had he not always been the best of fathers? 
Had he not always called her my princess ” 
or ‘‘pearl of maids,” or some other charming 
name? Had he not insisted that she must 
have the prettiest of hats, the finest of shoes, 
the most fashionable of little gowns, when he 
took her out to walk? Who had bought her 
a fringed parasol, a plumed hat, a talking doll, 
a ring, a chain, but he ? Would he not feel a 


WHAT CAME OF AN INTERVIEW. 


17 


terrible sorrow and shame if he knew what 
cheap coarse shoes, what shabby hats, what ugly 
I woolen and cotton dresses, what cotton gloves, 

: what untrimmed unbleached goods, she had 
j been provided with during three years under Miss 
Cade’s care ? But then,” said Margareth, phil- 
osophically, “ it is not the clothes, but the mind, 
that matters. And when I am a grown-up 
woman and can wear what I like, what differ- 
ence will it make to me that I was dressed shab- 
bily now ? I can be worth enough in myself to 
laugh at all that.” Yes, she would see her father 
again, all would be right between them, and for 
his sake she must be the very best that a woman 
could be. 

But she had a softer memory than this of her 
father, with his gifts and his eloquent sentences 
and his lordly airs : she had the memory of a 
saint. There was one who seemed to come 
within the horizon of her mind, softly and 
gradually evolved from tender mists of love 
and graciousness and comfort, who inundated 
all her life with sweetness and joy, who was so 
near herself that they had never seemed two, 
but one ; and then, because she had grown too 
good for this lower world, that better half of 
Margareth ’s being had on a June evening when 
the roses were fading, faded with the roses and 
followed their fragrance into heaven. Some 
way, it had seemed to her that her mother still 


18 


ROLAND DAUGHTER. 


lived near her, loved her, marked her life, and 
she half unconsciously looked for her coming 
back as the Britons looked ‘‘for Arthur from 
his tomb to reign again.” 

When Margareth had reached this point in 
her retrospection, she knelt down by her trunk 
and took out a sandalwood box choicely carved. 
It had in it various trifles, as a bottle of attar of 
roses and a gold thimble. She had asked her 
father for this box, which had been her mother’s, 
and she had brought it with her when she came 
to school, after her mother died. It had been a 
year later when, clearing up the box one day, 
she found that the velvet lining of the bottom 
would come out, and beneath it was a’ card 
whereon by her mother’s hand was written, 
“ This is of all things the most terrible — to be 
weighed in God’s balances and found wanting.” 
When Margareth first read that, it was a caba- 
listic sentence, and she studied it curiously. By 
degrees light had grown into it for her. To-day 
she looked at it, and wondered in what crisis of 
her fate her mother had fortifled herself with 
that thought. “ It will be five years,” whispered 
Margareth to herself — “ five hard years ; but I 
shall get through them somehow. I remember 
when I was eight, and it does not seem so very 
long ago. I must just make up my mind for 
five hard years, and in them not to be want- 
ing.” 


WHAT CAME OF AN INTERVIEW. 


19 


“Wanted in the parlor, Miss Koland,” said 
some one, putting a head in at the door. 

Margareth went down to meet her new charge, 
the twins. As she went Miss Cade was saying, 

“ Observe Miss Roland as she comes in — she 
has been entirely in my care three years — and 
you will see what splendid health and what 
pretty manners she has. Her friends brought 
her here and disappeared, and she is entirely 
dependent on my charity. My sole reward 
for all I do for her is the approval of my con- 
science.” 

It was to be inferred that the charity had ex- 
tended through three years. 

Miss Roland was also a sample of what Miss 
Cade could do in physical, mental, moral and 
social training. It would be quite impossible 
for Miss Cade to find a better advertisement 
or testimonial. 

Margareth entered, and was presented to the 
twins’ father. 

“ Will you come with me ?” said Margareth 
to the twins. 

The pair put their chins sungly down on 
their lace collars and looked up from under 
their bangs; then they simultaneously rushed 
at her with a shout of laughter. 


CHAPTER II. 


MISS ROLAND RECEIVES A LETTER. 

“ How short our happy days appear ! 

How long the sorrowful !” 

T here was certainly no fault to be found 
with those twins. They were a jolly little 
couple, well satisfied with themselves and with 
all the works of creation and providence,” so 
far as they knew them. They had been born 
into a world exactly fitted for their enjoyment, 
and had found a father and mother that suited 
them as well as if made to their order. Hay 
and night followed each other that the twins 
might have play and rest ; the seasons alternat- 
ed that after ample sledding and snowballs the 
twins might have flowers and picnics, strawber- 
ries, peaches, apples and nuts. An accident to 
their mother which sent the twins from home 
brought no tempests into their existence, for 
they were set up as small empresses of the 
‘‘select French boarding-school,” and Marga- 
reth was their first maid of honor. 

Gold — ^potent “Open, sesame!” — had opened 
all Miss Cade’s indulgence to the twins. Their 
father evidently had no familiar demon to cause 
20 


MISS ROLAND RECEIVES A LETTER. 


21 


him to forget his children. Once in two months 
he came to see them. He saw them alone; he 
took them out riding ; he gave them all that 
their small hearts desired ; he bestowed gifts 
on Miss Cade, but especially on Margareth, for 
their sake. It was well that he was moved to 
be generous to Margareth ; she had an inherited 
taste for the dainty things of life, and how she 
would have found an assortment of decent gloves, 
a full dozen of kerchiefs, or ribbons, or white 
aprons, or a gown better than a ten-cent calico, 
had not the father of the twins, who was one 
of the dry-goods princes, brought her these 
things, could not be guessed. Miss Cade never 
offered to furnish her anything. Margareth 
worked indefatigably, but she had little beyond 
board and tuition. She sold, through Mrs. 
Villeroy, the ring and the chain her father 
had given her, and with the money she bought 
shoes. 

Miss Cade was not a story-book monster ; she 
did not plunder Margareth of the choice pres- 
ents. She was well pleased to have Margareth 
go out with a nice navy-blue merino and a hem- 
stitched cambric kerchief, and to have people 
say, ‘‘How very good Miss Cade is to Miss 
Roland No doubt Mrs. Villeroy knew bet- 
ter, but it is not the calling of a minister's wife 
to tell tales. 

No girl would voluntarily have taken a life 


22 


ROLAND^ S DAUGHTER. 


of unthanked drudgery such as Margareth led, 
and yet for her it had great advantages. Miss 
Cade looked forward to the day when Margareth 
should be her most useful though unpaid teach- 
er, and no one in the ‘‘ select French, etc., school’’ 
was so diligently drilled and required to be so 
thorough as Miss Roland. The other girls were 
not expected to know anything about sewing or 
housework ; Margareth must learn to make, to 
mend, to run a machine, to do buttonholes. She 
could keep a house in order, she could set a 
table. In the summer vacation every one left 
the school but Miss Cade, the twins and Marga- 
reth ; at that time the cook took three weeks’ 
vacation, and then poor Margareth learned to 
cook. She confided with Mrs. Villeroy that she 
thought her existence hideous and sometimes 
cried about it at night when she was in bed and 
all the world was quiet. 

“ ‘ God has his plan 
For every man,’ ” 

said Mrs. Villeroy. ‘‘ If we knew his plan from 
the beginning as we shall see it at the end when 
life is summed up, none of us would be likely to 
complain of his way of carrying it out. But in 
that case we should not be able to exercise the 
graces of faith and patience. All these things 
that you hate now are making you worth just so 
much more as a woman — worth more to yourself 
and to the world.” 


MISS ROLAND RECEIVES A LETTER. 23 

Margareth grew wise in the care of children. 
She nursed the twins if they were sick; she 
amused them ; she taught them. They learned 
to read, write, sew, began French, arithmetic, 
geography, all with Margareth. 

‘‘How are your two teachers?” asked Mrs. 
Villeroy, once. 

“My two pupils, don’t you mean?” asked 
Margareth. 

“ You will find that they are teaching you 
more than they learn from you,” replied Mrs. 
Villeroy. 

Margareth escorted the twins to Sabbath- 
school and put them in the infant class, while 
she was in Mrs. Villeroy ’s Bible class. 

“ Margareth,” said her teacher, one day, 
“ what are the dangers of Sabbath-schools ?” 

“ I did not know there were any,” answered 
the surprised Margareth. 

“I will suggest some,” said Mrs. Villeroy. 
“ First, the danger that the Sabbath-school may 
stand to the child in the place of the church ; 
that it will become the children’s church, and 
not the nursery of the church ; that the little 
ones will have a habit of going to Sunday- 
school and a habit of not going to church.” 

“ Then I will bring the twins to church, but 
they will go to sleep.” 

“They will in time learn to keep awake: habit 
will be formed. A second danger of the Sab- 


24 


ROLAND'S DAUGHTER. 


bath-school is that all religion and teaching will 
be turned over to the teacher, and that home- 
instruction will be neglected. Of the two, home- 
instruction is more important, because, with the 
mind undiverted by other children, by their 
dress, by its own dress, the child at home comes 
into immediate personal contact with the teacher. 
There is a nearer bond, also, between the child 
and the home-teacher. There is the tu, not the 
vouSy in teaching. A third danger of the Sab- 
bath-school is that the lesson-leaf or the teach- 
er’s lesson-talk shall take the place of the Bible. 
Are our children learning as much of the Bible 
by heart as they should? Are they familiar 
with the book itself? Are they reading it? 
Are they apt in finding references? Do they 
search it for its stories ? Is it the chief source 
of their knowledge, the first, best book in their 
library ? It should be this. Of course you 
understand that I am illustrating the abuse, 
not the right use, of the Sabbath-school.” 

It was in striving to make the Sabbath-school 
a boon, and not a bane, to her twins that Marga- 
reth found that she could tell delightful stories. 
She began on Sundays with Scripture stories. 
The twins, delighted with the gift that thus 
shed a new glory and joy into their existence, 
became insatiable for tales. Then Margareth 
found the lately dreary hours of sewing pass- 
ing fleetly while she told the twins all manner 


MISS ROLAND RECEIVES A LETTER. 


25 


of golden stories of old and young, of youths 
j and children, of good and evil fortune. Very 
often she wove a splendid romance of what she 
; would wish her life to be — what, indeed, it was 
sure to be when her father should come out safe 
and sane from the retreat or exile where he was 
j hiding for reform, and should take his own hon- 
j ored place in the world, and should set Marga- 
j reth, proud and happy, at his side. It was such 
I a joy to utter all these glorious hopes to those 
I honest-eyed children, who guessed nothing of 
! the bitter meaning hidden in the tale. To them 
only Margareth spoke; neither Miss Cade nor 
Mrs. Villeroy guessed the mystery and sorrow 
of Margareth’s life, nor imagined what lay at 
the root of that singular desertion. Then, too, 
when Margareth wanted to use some happy free 
hour for reading, she could now secure peace by 
saying to the twins, ‘‘ Be good and quiet, for I 
am reading a splendid story to tell you after you 
have gone to bed.^’ So she could read in peace, 
history or the age of fable or fairy mythology or 
the age of chivalry, and the twins, playing har- 
moniously, would admonish each other, “ Keep 
quiet; ’member her new story.” 

If Miss Cade had guessed how much time 
Margareth thus secured, she would have given 
her more sewing to do, but Margareth locked 
her door and kept the twins still and happy ; 
and their admiring father told all his friends 


26 


ROLAND^S DAUGHTER. 


what a notable place Miss Cade’s select French, 
etc., was for keeping little girls jolly and bring- 
ing them on in their studies in a marvelous 
manner. 

If Margareth was wise, so was Miss Cade. If 
the girl fell ill. Miss Cade would be obliged to 
take care of her, and lose, also, that excellent, 
comprehensive, uncostly advertisement and testi- 
monial known and read of all who saw Marga- 
reth. So, though the girl worked continuously, 
she had change of occupation, and also she was 
in a room flooded with sunshine and where in 
good weather all the windows were open. 

So day after day and month after month of 
hard work went on, and Margareth increased 
not only in stature and in favor, but in wisdom 
also ; for, while the paying pupils learned what 
was promised on the circulars should be taught, 
Margareth learned everything that Miss Cade 
judged could possibly make her more useful. 
Looking along the future. Miss Cade made sure 
that the father was never coming back, and that, 
habituated to her present life, Margareth would 
never think of leaving it, but, becoming each 
year a more profltable investment, would keep 
on at the select boarding-school indefinitely. 
Hard, calculating, avaricious, unsympathetic. 
Miss Cade was, but, like adversity, she was ‘‘a 
good teacher.” 

Nor was Miss Cade the only epiphany of ad- 


MISS ROLAND RECEIVES A LETTER. 


27 


versity to Margareth : the day-pupils and the 
boarding-pupils soon detected the altered situ- 
ation. They saw Margareth busy in duties 
about the house ; they noticed that to her Miss 
Cade’s accents were always super-acid and man- 
datory. Catching the tone of the establishment, 
they seldom addressed her except to demand a 
service or some aid about the lessons ; and when 
the daily procession set forth in its worship of 
Hygeia, no one wished to walk with Miss Ro- 
land : ‘‘ She was shabby She was half a 
servant.” However, that practically was of 
small account, for it was Miss Roland’s duty 
to close the line of march with one of the antic 
twins clinging to either hand and her whole at- 
tention in requisition to keep the pair from in- 
continently jumping over or into gutters or 
rushing into candy-shops. 

The regular pupils were not allowed to go into 
the street alone : it would have been a crying sin 
to appear at the post-office or the railroad sta- 
tion or at any of the stores; but at all hours 
of day or evening Margareth could be sent on 
errands to any of these places, or to get milk, 
yeast, stationery, shoes from the menders or 
medicine from the drug-store. Liberty has its 
sweets, but Margareth did not find them in 
this fashion. 

A year passed — almost another year also — and 
then the twins were taken home ; their mother 


28 


ROLAND'S DAUGHTER. 


was quite well again, and their father came 
for them. Their departure left the select French 
boarding-school a wilderness to Margareth. Her 
occupation was gone ; her only friends were gone ; 
and now, instead of pleasant cares for the twins. 
Miss Cade gave Margareth more housework to 
do. She had the bell to answer, the halls and 
stairs to keep tidy, the schoolroom to sweep and 
dust. Her own room, also, was changed : she 
now had a dismal little nine-by-ten chamber in 
the attic — a place without carpet or curtain or 
other furniture than a bed, a chair and a little 
table whereon stood a cracked bowl and pitcher. 
Margareth wondered if she could endure three 
years more of such life. It was the first of 
April ; could she spend three long cold winters 
in this wretched fireless room ? However, sum- 
mer was now to be considered ; she could get on 
then, and who knew what would occur before 
November ? Never had she known two months 
so long as April and May. 

Among Margareth’s other duties was now that 
of going for the mail at ten in the morning. 
Formerly a lad had performed this duty for 
twenty-five cents a week, but Miss Cade thought 
that Margareth could now save her the money, 
and the exercise would be good for Miss Roland. 

Miss Cade read all the letters that came to the 
house. Margareth carried them to her; she 
opened all, looked each one over, returned it 


3IISS ROLAND RECEIVES A LETTER. 


29 


to its envelope, and then allowed Margareth to 
go and deliver it. The pupils bitterly resented 
I this espionage, but it was one of the rules. 

‘‘You knew it before you came,” said Miss 
Cade, “ and I alter rules for nobody.” 

Early in June, Margareth came hying home 
from the post-office highly excited : 

“ Oh, Miss Cade, Miss Cade ! Here is a let- 
i ter for me ! From father !” 

“ He has been long enough about writing,” said 
Miss Cade, laying the little heap of letters before 
her and taking up one slowly. 

“ Please, Miss Cade, won’t you read mine first, 
so that I can have it ? Think ! I have not heard 
i from him for three years.” 

“ I shall read them in the usual order ; yours 
I will come last, as you are lowest down in the 
I alphabet. I am the one that should be most 
I interested in your father’s letter, as he owes me 
[ money. You can never hope to be a lady. Miss 
Poland, or even a respectable woman, while 
you are capable of such excitement.” 

Margareth turned and looked out of the win- 
dow ; she was quivering with excitement and 
trying not to cry. She knew that the more 
anxious she seemed, the more slow Miss Cade 
would be. She wished she had kept the letter 
and said nothing about it. Oh, what did it say ? 
He had written; all was well; he would send 
for her; her bondage would be ended. 


30 


ROLAND’S DAUGHTER. 


Slowly Miss Cade cut open each envelope and 
read each letter. It took her such a weary time ! 
Finally she said, 

‘‘ Here, Margareth ; distribute these.” 

But mine, please, madam ?” 

“ I will read it while you are gone ; you can 
come back for it. The young ladies must not 
be kept waiting.” 

Margareth hurried from room to room with 
the mail, and was back as Miss Cade finished 
reading. Miss Cade’s nose was very red ; the 
little black curl at the top of her comb was | 
shaking with indignation ; her eyes scintillated. 
It is very sure that if Margareth had not already 
known about the coming of her letter she would 
never have known about it. Even now Miss 
Cade would have refused to give it up had she ’ 
not known the damsel’s decisive temper, and [ 
that if she refused her the letter which broke j 
the three years’ silence Margareth would j)rompt- \ 
ly appeal to Mr. Yilleroy and make her wrong 
known to the public. Miss Cade did not wish 
her ways criticised. 

‘‘There is your letter,” she cried, sharply. 

“ Surely, the very coolest piece of impertinence 
I ever imagined ! Take it !” 

It was Miss Cade who was now forgetting the 
unruffled demeanor of a lady, but the instance 
was not isolated. 

Margareth perceived that there was a battle to 


MISS BOLAND RECEIVES A LETTER. 31 

be fought, and she stood still collecting her powers 
whilst she read her letter : 

“ My Dear Daughter : In the time since I 
saw you, you have grown from a little child to 
almost a young woman. Five years ! A long 
time for a father to be parted from his only 
daughter. The tie between a father and daugh- 
ter is very close and tender. We owe that noble 
work De consolatione to the mourning of Cicero 
for the gifted and beautiful Tullia. I feel sure 
that my nineteenth-century maiden is not a whit 
behind the Roman daughter in charms and vir- 
tues. I regret to summon you from your happy 
life and school-duties to take the unpleasing cares 
of a nurse, but in sickness you are the only one 
to whom I can turn. Come, then, to me at once. 
Miss Cade will purchase through-tickets for you. 
See that you do not leave without money in your 
purse. It is my rule that one should always 
carry, outside of tickets, the full amount of fare 
for a trip, so that, in case of any accident or dif- 
ficulty, there would be, at any point of the jour- 
ney, means to proceed or return. Tell Miss 
Cade, with my compliments, that when this crisis 
is over I shall be pleased to communicate with 
her as to my indebtedness on your behalf. 

‘‘ Your devoted father, 

'' M. Tullius Roland. 


61 H St., Boston, Mass.’ 


32 


ROLAND'S DAUGHTER. 


“ He is sick ! My poor father ! And he has 
no one to take care of him ! I will get ready at , 
once. How soon will a train go, Miss Cade? 
When can I start?” 

“ ‘ Start ’ !” cried Miss Cade, furiously. ‘'You | 
will not start at all ; you will stay where you are. ' 
The very idea of such a thing ! At your age ! I 
Fifteen ! To go from here to Boston alone ! 
The notion is monstrous. And ‘ Miss Cade ’ 
is to buy your tickets and give you money in 
your pocket, is she ? Cool enough, I must say ! 

If he was able to write all that rigmarole about 
Cicero and Tullia and your beauty and virtues, 
he was quite able to draw a cheque for the mon- f 
ey he owes me, and for your traveling expenses, i 
‘ Miss Cade will provide,’ indeed ! It is bold, \ 
shameless robbery. If I should send you off, \ 
I should never get back what I put into the / 
trip, nor you, nor the eleven hundred dollars . 
he owes me. No, no, miss ; here you stay !” 

“ It is not eleven hundred dollars,” cried Mar- 
gareth, hotly. “ For two years I have paid, ac- 
cording to our bargain, for all I have had ; he 
owes you for only one year.” 

does not know that,” retorted Miss Cade. 

“ And I must say that demanding railroad tickets J 
and pocket-money is a new way to pay old debts, j 
Say not another word, Margareth. This is by I 
no means the letter of a dying man ; and if it 
were, you would be better off in my care than ’ 


MISS ROLAND RECEIVES A LETTER. 


33 


all alone in a strange city. Not a word ! The 
stairs, both halls and the front porch need sweep- 
i ing; then you will see that you have the ten 
pages of Taine’s Pyrenees perfect for to-morrow. 
After that you will find on my table a basket of 
stockings that I was too busy to darn last week, 

, and I want you to do them all — nicely, too.” 

Margareth thrust her letter into her pocket 
and went out without a word. Her heart was 
bursting with indignation. She must have time 
to think, to resolve ; she could always think to 
more effect when she was occupying her hands. 
She took her broom, brushes, dust-cloth and 
j dust-pan, and went to work at the halls. Prob- 
I ably Miss Cade’s stair- and passage-ways had 
never had such a furious setting to rights as 
they got that day, when they received the 
effects of all Miss Roland’s superfiuous wrath 
and energy. 

Taine’s Pyrenees being next in order, Marga- 
reth took the book and adjourned to the room 
of Hope Cornell, a pleasant girl with a uni- 
versal disability for all languages, her own in- 
cluded. The parent Cornells being ambitious 
and exacting for their child. Miss Cade moved 
her through the successive stages of the French 
tongue by grace of Margareth, who studied the 
lessons with her. When Margareth repaired to 
Hope’s room, she took also a railway guide from 
t the hall closet, where one of the departing pu- 


34 


ROLAND'S DAUGHTER. 


pils had left it a few weeks before. While Hope 
wandered hopelessly in the mazes of Taine’s best ; 
sentences, Margareth studied the guide-book. ' 
Finally she looked up : j 

“ Hope, you said lately that you would need ■ 
another trunk to take home your things at va- ' 
cation. Will you trade with me — your port- 
manteau for my trunk?’’ 

Why, girl, you have only one trunk, and it * 
is worth much more than my portmanteau.” ^ 
“‘‘Not to me now. If you do not mind, I < 
would like very much to trade.” • 

Oh, I’ll trade, certainly. The gain will be , 
mine.” 

‘‘ Miss Cade is in the second French class ; the • 
girls are all in their rooms. Will you empty i 
the portmanteau and let. me take it up to the j 
attic now, and come with me and help me carry ! 
down my trunk softly ?” 

This looked immensely like an adventure, and ’ 
was far more congenial to Miss Cornell’s soul ' 
than the most fervid description of pink-skinned ^ 
Pyrenean pigs. She promptly assisted in the ■ 
exchange. I 

But when the trunk was down and hidden in 1 
the closet. Miss Cornell threw her arms about \ 
Margareth, and, having locked the door, chal- ’ 
lenged her intentions : i 

‘‘ Margareth, you mean to do something ; what ] 
is it? You shall not stir a step till you tell me ] 


MISkS BOLAND RECEIVES A LETTER. 35 

the whole thing. Are you going to run away ? 
I don’t wonder — Miss Cade treats you disgrace- 
fully — but please, please don’t go till after my 
French examination, or I know I shall perish. 
Margareth, tell me ! I like you better than any 
girl in school ; you are so kind about helping me 
and doing all those unutterably disgusting French 
exercises, and you are not one bit proud because 
you are so much farther on than other girls of 
your age. You are just ready to cry; I see it 
in your eyes. Has the harpy been abusing 
you ?” 

For answer, Margareth burst into hearty tears, 
moved by this unusual sympathy, and put into 
Hope’s hand her father’s letter, which Hope 
read with much eagerness, and vast disappoint- 
ment that it was not the lucubration of some 
admiring youth. 

Your father ! I didn’t know you had a 
father,” cried Hope. 

‘‘ He is a very learned man— a Latin professor 
in a college,” said Margareth, proudly. I have 
not heard from him for three years. He has 
been away traveling, or — -or sick, or something ; 
and now, you see, he sends for me to nurse him. 
He is alone, he needs me, and Miss Cade says I 
shall not go a step. She forbids it; she will not 
get my tickets. She says if he dies I will be 
safer here. She wishes me to neglect my sick 
father !” 


36 


BOLAND’S DAUGHTER. 


“The monster! The horrid wretch! I al- 
ways hated that woman. Why, Margareth, 
your father may die all alone there by himself, j 
Have you written to say you cannot go ? Oh ] 
how I shall pity you ! Day after day you will 
not know whether he is better or worse, or dead 
or alive. As like as not, she will not let you see 
any more letters. Very likely she has hidden 
your letters this three years. Poor Margareth ! ^ 
what will you do, wondering and waiting and j 
not hearing anything?’’ 

“ It will not be that way,” said Margareth, 
drying her eyes and speaking with decision, 
“for I am going to him.” 


CHAPTER III. 


MISS ROLAND ESCAPES. 

Morn in the white wake of the morning star 
Came, furrowing all the Orient into gold.” 

“ V OU are going to him !” cried Hope. ‘‘ When ? 

JL How ? Without leave ?” 

“ I will tell you my plan, if you will promise 
not to say one word to any one about it.” 

I wouldn’t for the world,” said Hope, breath- 
lessly. 

“ I must go,” said Margareth. It is not for 
spite or for any fancy of romance about running 
away ; but I know my poor father better than 
any one does, and I know what troubles he is 
subject to. Now that he calls me to help him, 
no one shall keep me from him. Before my 
mother died she said, ‘Margareth, always love 
your father and do your duty to him like a good 
daughter.’ I promised, and I am sure it is not 
my duty to leave him sick among strangers.” 

“ Indeed it is not. But how will you manage 
to go ?” 

“An express-train will leave the station here 
at two o’clock to-night ; I shall have my port- 
manteau packed, and shall take that train. I 

37 


38 


ROLAND’S DAUGHTER. 


shall let myself out of the house quietly, and 
Miss Cade will not know until to-iiiorrow at 
half-past-seven breakfast, when I shall be almost 
to New York.’’ 

Hope clasped her hands in intense enjoyment 
of the proposed adventure and of Miss Cade’s 
coming surprise and fury : 

“ But how will you get that great portmanteau, 
with all your things in it, to the station — a quarter 
of a mile distant ? Oh, I would love to go and 
help you, but I dare not.” 

I would not allow you to,” said Margareth, 
quietly. “ I take the portmanteau because I 
could not get a trunk out of the house with- 
out too much risk of being seen by some one. 
You know Tom Neal, the boy I visited and told 
stories to when his leg was broken ? He would 
do anything for me, and he is strong, if he is 
only twelve. I shall see him this evening and 
have him come and help me carry the portman- 
teau. He sleeps in a little down-stairs room at 
his grandmother’s, and he can slip out easily in 
the night.” 

Dear me ! I wish I were going with you or 
in your place. I love adventures. Do you know 
how to go ? Have you traveled ?” 

‘‘ I know how I came here, and I have heard 
the girls tell, and Mrs. Villeroy has told me all 
about their trips. The train at two in the morn- 
ing is express, and stops only at Poughkeepsie 


MIS^^ MOLAND ESCAPES. 


39 


and New York. There I shall easily find the 
train to Boston, for it starts from the same sta- 
tion ; and so I shall get on somehow.’’ 

‘‘ How much money have you ?” demanded 
Hope. 

Fifty cents.” 

‘‘ But, girl, that will not be enough to buy 
your tickets.” 

‘‘ I know it will not ; that is why I am so anx- 
ious to get an express-train. You see, after I 
am once on, they will not stop in the night to 
put me off, and they will carry me through to 
Poughkeepsie, at least. So on I shall keep, tak- 
ing express-trains for long runs, and I hope to 
get through — after some trouble and delay, of 
course.” 

<< Why, I never heard of such a thing !” 

It is horrible. But the railroads shall not lose 
money by it: when I get home, I shall send 
money back to pay for the tickets. I do not 
wish to take such a way, but I must go. I’d 
walk to get to my poor sick father.” 

But, Margareth, in some of the cities they 
have great iron gates before the cars, and they 
say ‘ Show tickets ’ before they let you go inside 
where the trains are.” 

I did not know that,” said Margareth, much 
troubled ; but I hope the conductor will let me 
go on to New York when I say that I am alone 
and have no money, and then I shall only have 


40 


BOLAND^ S DAUGHTER. 


that one big city with its iron gates, and I can 
buy a little ticket with twenty-five or thirty cents, 
and then go on/’ 

‘‘ Dear, dear ! And what will you eat ?” 

‘‘Oh, I can go without eating; or if I just 
have two biscuits at a penny each, I could get 
on for as much as two days, I think.” 

“You’ll starve. It is the most dreadful thing 
I ever heard of. Why do you not get the mon- 
ey of Mrs. Villeroy.” 

“ You know the Villeroys are all away for a 
month ; Mr. Villeroy ’s father has died. I know no 
other person to ask ; and if I went to any friends, 
they would think something strange and come 
right to Miss Cade. Then she would keep me 
from going. She might lock me up. She does 
not want me to go ; I am too useful. And — I 
might as well tell you — there is some debt due 
for me, as you see in that letter, and she wants 
to keep me until it is paid. She need not fear ; 
my father is a gentleman.” 

“ She is a monster,” said Miss Cornell, who 
made hating her schoolmistress the first duty of 
her life. 

“All the same, I shall give her a chance to let 
me go. I shall go to her after tea, when she has 
had time to get cool and consider the matter, and 
set all the need before her and beg her for mon- 
ey just for my tickets and no more. Then, if 
she still refuses, I shall slip out and see Tom 


MISS BOLAND ESCAPES. 


41 


Neal, and pack my portmanteau and be off by 
I half-past one. I wish you would come down and 
I lock the back door after me, so as to make the 
house safe.’’ 

Now, here,” cried Hope, furiously, “ is what 
comes of our not being allowed to keep any 
j pocket-money in this jail of a school ! Miss 
Cade takes it all and doles it out a bit at a time 
when we tell her what we wish to do with it. I 
I know she manages to keep half of it for herself. 
It’s downright stealing.” 

‘‘ Oh, nonsense ! No, she does not. Be fair,” 
said Margareth. 

“ If we girls had any pocket-money left us,” 
continued Hope, ^‘between mine and what I 
could borrow, you need not go off in such a 
forlorn way. But let me tell you one thing, my 
poor dear : down under the lining of my brush - 
case, where the old spy cannot find it, I have 
hidden five dollars, which my brother gave me 
when he visited me lately. Now, that you shall 
have, and it will be enough at New York to get 
you on the Boston express, gates or no gates. 
Keep it for that.” 

Oh, you are so good, Hope ! I never 
dreamed of such a thing. I will surely pay 
it back.” 

Not a bit ; it is a love-token. I meant to 
have a real jolly spread some night — turkey 
stuffed with oysters, and what not— just to spite 


42 


ROLAND^ S DAUGHTER. 


old foxy. Ill take this expedition instead of it, 
and you shall write me under cover to Tom Neal 
and tell me all your adventures, and we will have 
a night-session and read it to all the girls, and 
you will become quite a heroine. Bless me ! I 
havenl felt so lively since the term opened. Let 
me plan it all out. Your brown merino will do 
very well to travel in — quite genteel ; your shoes, 
my de^r, are simply not presentable, but I have 
a new pair : never had ’em on, and will not need 
them before vacation. Mother always provides 
too much. You shall have them. I hate them, 
any way; the heels are quite too low for my 
fancy. Your brown gloves will do, but your 
old straw hat with that rag of velvet about it 
and that old flower is too disgusting for any- 
thing; it makes you look thoroughly dowdy. 
If I cannot learn a French lesson, I can trim a 
hat, and that art now is more to the purpose. 
Bight after dinner I’ll slip up to the attic and 
get your hat, and sponge it off and trim it with 
that new silk handkerchief of mine — gold, brown 
and a dash of crimson. Just the idea ! It will 
be more than swell, and father will assuredly 
buy me three handkerchiefs to make up for it 
when I tell the pathetic tale of its sacrifice.” 

Margareth remembered the basket of stock- 
ings, and knew that all duties must be performed 
if Miss Cade were to be in a humor to listen to 
her last appeal that evening. Hope Cornell, 


MISS ROLAND ESCAPES. 


43 


with her voluble plans, was quite likely to get 
zero in her French for the next day. Margareth 
went, therefore, for the darning, begging Hope to 
forget her proposed flight and devote herself to 
the Pyrenees. When she returned, Hope was 
missing. She soon came in, breathless : 

See here ! Here’s lunch for you. Lucy 
Day’s aunt smuggled her a pound-cake when 
she visited her yesterday ; I bought this wedge 
of it with my red-bordered handkerchief. Lucy 
has been pining for that to wear with her red 
sash.” 

“You dear girl ! Your shoes, your money, 
your handkerchiefs ! You will have yourself 
stripped for me,” said Margareth, overwhelmed 
by Hope’s unexpected zeal. 

“ I never enjoyed anything so much in my 
life,” said Hope ; “ it breaks up the intense dull- 
ness of my prison and enables me to exist until 
my freedom — that is, the twenty-ninth day of this 
present month. It will give me a splendid ro- 
mance to tell to the girls during the summer, 
and perhaps I can so show up the amiable Cade 
in it that father will not return me to her mer- 
cies next September. Then good-bye to gram- 
mar — grammar, the science I can never learn; 
for why one word should be an adjective and 
another a noun I never could see. Speaking 
words is easy enough, but spell them according 
to Webster and Worcester and other inquisitors- 


44 


ROLAND'S DAUGHTER. 


general of the rising race, that I cannot. In 
spelling I think every man should be a law to 
himself, and not set up to be a law to other 
people.” 

“ Do, please, Hope, keep still and learn that 
French. To-morrow I shall not be here to help 
you with the next lesson.” 

“ Then I shall be sick, go to bed and get ex- 
cused.” 

In the evening Margareth went to Miss Cade. 
She earnestly set forth her duty as a daughter to 
go when her father needed her, begged her teach- 
er to give her just her ticket by the cheapest way 
to Boston and not one penny more. 

“I will pay you back. Miss Cade — indeed I 
will — if I earn it myself by sewing. And then 
there is my bottle of attar of roses. It has a 
gold stopper ; it is worth the ticket, I am sure. 
You can have that until I send the money.” 

‘‘ ‘ Attar of roses ’ !” cried Miss Cade, in great 
scorn. “ As if I cared for perfumery ! There 
has been too much of such wastefulness in your 
family, or I should have had my dues. Say no 
more ; you shall not go. You are just becoming 
useful to me; you shall stay until my bill is 
paid. If your father wants you, let him send 
me my dues. Go to your room, and don’t let 
me see you again.” 

Margareth obeyed minutely : she went to her 
room and did not let Miss Cade see her again. 


MISS MOLAND ESCAPES. 


45 


She stole out the back door, found Tom Neal, 
bound him to secrecy, and engaged him to be at 
the gate at half-past one ; then she returned to 
her room, packed her portmanteau and set every- 
[ thing in order. Her yearly-lessening wardrobe 
went safely into the portmanteau, and also her 
; few treasures, her Bible and text-book, and a 
book of poems that had been given to her by 
I Mrs. Villeroy. 

At midnight, when the house was in profound 
sleep, Hope stole up in high glee to superintend 
Margareth’s dressing. The boots fitted, the hat 
looked unexceptionably well, the brown merino 
was a very proper traveling-dress. The warm 
June night precluded the need of a wrap. Hope 
had surreptitiously made a sandwich at the tea- 
table, and she put that and the cake into a little 
lunch-bag of her own. It was no great work of 
charity for Hope to give away things : she great- 
ly enjoyed doing it ; and then her mother made 
all good to her by supplying the vanished articles 
with something more costly. In stocking-feet 
Hope and Margareth stole down to the kitchen 
door. Tom Neal stood, a little black shadow, in 
the moonlight. The girls kissed, Tom shoul- 
dered the baggage, Margareth warned Hope to 
lock the door at once and regain her room in 
swift silence. 

“I’m going up to cry my eyes out,” said 
Hope ; “ I shall cry regularly every day until 


46 


ROLAND^ S DAUGHTER. 


you send me a letter by Tom Neal. Don’t wait 
too long, or my complexion will be quite ruined 
— -just on the verge of vacation, too.” 

From the shelter of five years Margareth was 
gone into the stillness of the moonlight night. 

So far as regards any experience in traveling, 
no one could be more helpless than Margareth, 
but to balance this disadvantage she was emphat- 
ically what is called a level-headed girl,” calm, 
decided, closely observant. Margareth took her 
place in the car which Tom Neal, who was a 
vender of fruit and small wares, told her was 
the one last visited by the conductor ; she chose 
the last seat in the car, as that was some little 
distance from any occupied by passengers. Neal 
crowded the big portmanteau under the seat and 
was presently away, and then the train was rush- 
ing off through the moonlight. j 

It was some little time before the conductor j 
sauntered up with his Ticket, please !” Mar- j 
gareth looked steadily out of the window, reply- * 
ing very low, j 

I haven’t any ticket.” 

‘'H’m! that is a poor plan. Always buy 
your ticket. Money ?” i 

I cannot buy a ticket,” responded Marga- i 
reth. 

“What? What is this? Lost your money, 
miss ?” 

“ No,” said Margareth, looking around ; “ I 


MISS ROLAND ESOAPES. 


47 


knew I could not get a ticket when I started, 
but I had to come.’’ 

Now, see here ! That won’t do,” said the 
conductor. 

I know it is very wrong,” said Margareth, 
who would have sacrificed her last penny then 
and there for a ticket to New York had she not 
had in mind the closed iron gates of which Hope 
had warned her guarding the Boston express, 
and of the terrors of being penniless in that 
wicked city New York. ‘‘ I know, sir, I am 
doing a very ugly thing, coming on the train 
without any ticket, but just as soon as I get 
home — to my father, that is — I will send you 
the money.” 

The conductor shrugged his shoulders ; he had 
heard before of sending money. However, this 
was a very pretty, ladylike young girl : 

“ So you are going to your father ? He should 
see that you had tickets and started properly.” 

‘‘ He would, but he is sick ; he sent for me to 
take care of him. If I do not go, I fear he will 
die all alone.” 

Well, couldn’t the people you were with get 
your ticket ?” 

“ It was my school-teacher, and she would not 
do it.” 

Very inhuman I call that. This train stops 
at Poughkeepsie to change engines ; that is the 
only stop — half-past four.” 


48 


ROLAND^S DAUGHTER. 


“ I know ; that is why I came on board. I am 
very sorry to be doing what looks so wrong.” 

The conductor walked off. With a man or a 
boy he would have expressed himself differently, 
but this nice-looking girl traveling alone in the 
night, and evidently in distress, was another 
affair. After musing a while he mentioned the 
matter to an elderly man in the forward part 
of the car. The man looked back at Margareth 
and laughed a little : 

‘‘ Let her alone. No doubt she is a runaway 
from one of these boarding-schools. She has got 
into some difficulty, and is going home to her 
people. I think theyTe too hard on the girls 
in some schools. We had such a case up where 
I live. A girl at school near Troy, by some ill- 
luck, in a crowd of girls, stuck her scissors in 
another girhs shoulder. It was pure accident, 
but the sufferer was a girl she disliked, and so 
she was accused of injuring her intentionally. 
That hurt her feelings so that she put on her 
bonnet and ran off on a night-train without a 
cent, and, upon my word, she borrowed, or what- 
evei* you call it, her way clear home to Buffalo. 
Of course her father made it right with the 
school and the railroad, but the child was so 
overwrought and fretted that she was sick for 
a month. This child has no doubt been set on 
some way, and feels as if she would die if she 
doesn’t get home at once.” 


MISS ROLAND ESCAPES. 


49 


Finding herself agreeably ignored, Margareth 
fell asleep. When she awoke, it was four o’clock 
and day was dawning. A pale light lay along 
the sky, the moon had set, the dew glittered on 
the grass, the cattle were stirring in the meadows. 
The conductor came to her : 

“We shall soon be in Poughkeepsie. Is your 
father there ?” 

“ No, sir ; he is in Boston.” 

“ And you are going through to Boston with- 
out any money ?” 

Margareth hung her head ; that five dollars 
weighed on her. She did not know what she 
ought to do. But the terrors of the iron gates, 
of night in New York, perhaps, and nowhere 
to go, and Hope’s assurances that a stranger 
without any trunk must pay in advance at 
hotels, — all these things looked appalling, and 
her sense of right gave way under the pressure. 

Boston ! That put a very different face on 
affairs to the conductor. He could not, as man 
or ofiicial, countenance such a trip. He spoke 
sharply : 

“ Now, see here ! Sick father or not, you 
should never have undertaken such an expe- 
dition. No doubt your schoolmistress was quite 
right about it. If I let you stay on the train 
clear to New York, you will be worse off than 
you are now. Have you friends, know any one 
there?” 


4 


50 


ROLAND DA UOHTER. 


Margareth shook her head. 

“ It will never do at all. Ever been there ?” . 

Another negative nod from Margareth. 

“ Well, I certainly am not the man to take you 
to New York and abandon you to the mercies of 
the city. Impossible ! The way for you to do 
is to take the very next train back from Pough- 
keepsie. I’ll give you a line to the conductor, 
and your schoolma’am won’t kill you for run- 
ning off. She can pay your trip up and send 
the bill to your folks. If your father needs: 
you, he’ll send money. No man wants his 
daughter, at your age, to be running around 
alone and penniless. The idea is monstrous. 
You go straight back from Poughkeepsie. The 1 
train will be along at eight ; you can stop in the 
station until then. You’ll be safe home at noon.” 
He wrote a few lines in a notebook, tore out the 
page, folded it, gave it to Margareth, and said 
coaxingly, ‘‘ Now, I’ll put you off at Poughkeep- 
sie, and do you go back like a good girl.” 

It was no more than Margareth had expected ; 
she said nothing. The train stopped to change 
engines ; the conductor came for the portman- 
teau. The day had grown clearer ; a few train- . 
hands were moving about in the crisp morning ; 
the city was still asleep except the rumbling 
market-wagons. A little longer, and Margareth 
stood alone, her portmanteau at her feet, her \ 
caba in her hand ; she felt herself to be the 


MISS ROLAND ESCAPES. 


51 


most forlorn child in the world. The train had 
gone; New York, with its iron gates and its ter- 
rible reputation, lay far away ; Boston and her 
father, farther away still. She was tired, chilly, 
faint, discouraged. One and another and an- 
other passed her. One man took the trouble 
to inform her “ there would not be another train 
for an hour.” Another kindly hinted “ perhaps 
she would like to go inside and sit down.” She 
scarcely heard either ; she was wondering what 
she should do. Should she exhaust her little 
capital now? How then get through and out 
of New York, the vast city lying across her 
path like one of the old-time dragons which 
devoured young men and maidens ? Then she 
thought it would have been better to have gone 
to Albany and found at his store her friend the 
father of the twins. No doubt the family had 
not left for the country so early in the season ; 
the twins would be glad to see her, and she could 
tell her story to their father and borrow money 
for her journey to Boston. Possibly, now, she 
would do well to buy a ticket for Albany. But 
then suppose she should not find her friends 
there? What should she do then, quite desti- 
tute in Albany ? Or suppose that her poor 
father, ill, alone, anxiously waiting for his child, 
should die while she was delaying ? Margareth 
wished she knew what was right. What did 
God mean her to do ? She had read something 


52 


ROLAl^D^S DAUGHTER. 


about running before the face of Providence and 
then having to run back. She wished that now 
people were directed by an audible voice — not 
uncertain, like Dodona’s oracle, but clear: ‘‘This | 
is the way ; walk ye in it.’’ She thought of a 1 
favorite verse in her book of poems: | 

“ Sweet were the days when Thou didst lodge with Lot, 

Struggle with Jacob, sit with Gideon, 

Advise with Abraham ; when Thy power could not 
Encounter Moses’ strong complaint and moan. 

Thy words were then, ‘ Let me alone I’ 

One might have sought and found Thee presently 
At some fair oak or bush or cave or well. 

Is my God this way ? ‘ No,’ they would reply ; 

‘ He is to Sinai gone, as we heard tell ; 

List I ye may hear great Aaron’s bell.’ ” 

Evidently, she had been born a great many 
hundred years too late. She was in a world 
where very many ways might seem right and 
none of them be right, and where maidens- 
errant were certainly at a disastrous discount. 
With her head bent low, her hands loosely 
clasped before her, her face snow-pale, with 
every happy dimple smoothed away and the 
mobile mouth much nearer a cry than a 
laugh, she made a more pathetic picture than 
she knew. 

“ What is the matter, child ?” said some one, 
coming up behind her and addressing the club 
of braided yellow hair with curled ends. . “ Ex- 
cuse me, miss, but are you waiting for a train ?” 


MISS BOLANI) ESCAPES. 


63 


Margareth looked up. The speaker was an 
elderly man with gray hair, a benevolent smile 
and a shrewd blue eye*. She answered frankly : 

‘‘ I am thinking how I can get to New York 
without a ticket.’^ 

“ Well, that is rather a difficulty. How did 
you get here so early in the morning?’’ 

I was put off the express because I had no 
ticket.” 

‘‘ The Scripture tells us,” said the gray man, 
‘‘ that no one setteth out on a journey without 
first sitting down to count the cost. The Scrip- 
ture seems not to have had your case in view.” 

I was afraid it would cost more to stay than 
to go,” said Margareth, “ and now I cannot tell 
whether I was right or not.” 

A case of conscience ? I should say, on the 
first look at it, you were certainly wrong to take 
a ride and not pay for it. Suppose 3^ou tell me 
the business ?” 

There was something in the plain, friendly 
tone, the keen eye, the fatherly face, that en- 
couraged confidence. Margareth without reser- 
vation told her story, including the dreaded iron 
gates and the five dollars given her by her friend 
Hope. She explained that her teacher had dis- 
liked losing her services, and was also holding 
her bound for a year’s bill that was due. 

“ Possibly your father is not very well pre- 
pared to receive you.” 


64 


ROLAND'S DAUGHTER. 


“ He is sick ; he sent for me/’ said Margareth ; 
and she took from her pocket the letter. 

The elegant penmanship, the long words, the 
fine allusions, impressed the stranger greatly. 
He was a plain, self-made man with immense 
respect for learning; to him a Latin professor 
was a being beyond the order of common men, 
seated in some high court of literary demi-gods. 
Yet his common sense told him that some ele- 
ment alien to literature and honest manhood 
must have entered into this professor’s life to 
cause the long silence, the neglected bill and this 
summons. 

‘‘ You see, I must go to him if I have to walk,” 
said Margareth. 

A little straightening of her brows and dark- 
ening of her eyes told that she was equal to dar- 
ing undertakings. That decided the stranger : 

‘‘Yes, I see. I have a daughter, and she 
would be bound to come to me if I needed her 
or she thought I did. Come, now, I have it. 
I am conductor of this through-freight that is 
changing engines on that second track ; we leave 
here at five, and we reach New York about 
twelve. There is a tidy little caboose on the 
end of the train, and, as it is fine weather, it 
won’t be much used; you shall ride in that. 
It will be slow and there are no cushions, but 
you will be quite safe and comfortable and airy 
with all the windows open. The hands are all 


MISS ROLAND ESCAPES. 


55 


quiet family-men ; there won’t be any swearing. 
It will be all right. So, if you choose, I’ll put 
your bag in and explain it; and when we get 
to New York, I’ll try and see you safely off 
for Boston.” 

Here was help in good earnest; Margareth 
was not so deserted of Providence as she had 
thought. She gave a deep sigh of relief and 
followed her new friend and the portmanteau 
into the caboose. 

The “ through- freight ” was soon rolling on its 
way — less swiftly than the express, but then there 
was no terrible conductor to demand a ticket. 
Margareth took heart of grace, ate her lunch, 
and, finding a book on the seat, began to read 
to distract her mind from fears about the Boston 
trip and a possibly-dying father. The conductor 
of the freight-train, her new friend, was in the 
caboose most of the time ; the other hands came 
in and went out. No one troubled her ; the 
wives and daughters of these train-men often 
went over this road in the caboose. They made 
but few stops, and were in the freight-station at 
New York before one o’clock that day. 

Just before they reached the city the conduc- 
tor came to Margareth : 

I have thought out how it would be best for 
you to do. The train to Boston will leave at 
eight, and you have not enough money for the 
ticket, and it would be a bad plan to go to Boston 


56 


ROLAND^ S DAUGHTER. 


without a penny, even if you expect to find your I 
father there. The Stonington line boat leaves ' 
its pier at six o’clock this afternoon. You can - 
get your ticket for a dollar ; and if you do not \ 
take a berth, you will have a right to a chair or j 
sofa or mattress in the ladies’ cabin for your tick- : 
et. At this time in the year I do not think you ■ 
could get a room or berth unless it was engaged : 
two or three days before. From Stonington to : 
Boston will cost you but a little, and you will be 
in the city before nine o’clock to-morrow morn- ■ 
ing. I will take you to the boat myself. You 
can wait until I get my business attended to here, 
and we will go in a street-car.” 

Margareth was accordingly taken to a little 
waiting-room, and her friend handed her two 
biscuits and a banana, which made her a very 
fair lunch. Then into the street-car, and so to 
the boat, where the kindly conductor escorted 
her to the upper saloon : 

‘‘The ladies’ cabin is not unlocked yet. It 
will be open at four ; you can stay here or sit 
on deck until then. After that perhaps you had 
better go down there. Here is your ticket. Be 
careful of yourself. I hope you will find your 
father all right. God bless you! Good-bye.” 

The man was gone before Margareth could 
thank him or realize that, in addition to all his 
other goodness to her, he had bought her boat- 
ticket. She had in her heart a shrine sacred to 


3IISS BOLAND ESCAPES. 


57 


the laughing, loving twins, another sacred to 
Mrs. Villeroy ; she straightway erected a third 
to this conductor, whose name even she did not 
know, but who had been to her in her desolation 
so good and true a friend. She resolved to tell 
her father all about him, and to ask him to write 
a letter of thanks and send some token of re- 
membrance even without the name; her father 
could find some way of discovering the right 
man. 

It was but little after two o’clock ; passengers 
had not begun to come on board yet. The saloon 
was still half dark — a very gorgeous place full of 
mirrors, cut-glass chandeliers, plush-covered fur- 
niture, Brussels carpets, gilding, painting and 
bronze figures. Several tall, colored men, serv- 
ants, were lounging about, chatting and flicking 
feather brushes at marbles or mirrors. Far up 
at the end of the cabin Margareth descried 
through the dimness the stout figure of a woman 
seated in an arm-chair, a- pile of luggage on a 
chair at her side, her feet placidly elevated on a 
chair before her, an early traveler like herself. 
Margareth slowly approached her. 


CHAPTER IV. 


AND THOMAS HENRYK 

“ To be sure, the preacher says, our sins should make us sad ; 

But mine is a time of peace, and there is grace to be had, 

And God, not man, is the Judge of us all when life shall cease, 
And in this book, little Annie, the message is one of peace.” 

S LOWLY, slowly, drawn by desire for tbe 
companionship of some one of her own sex 
and of superior age, Margareth moved up the 
saloon. The light was there clearer, and the 
stranger came into full view. Margareth stop- 
ped and contemplated the bizarre figure as one 
studies a genre picture. The stranger had taken 
leave to be so different from other people that 
she had seemed to lose ordinary personality and 
to be relegated to the category of curiosities. 
Besides, she appeared to be asleep. A stout 
woman, a short woman, a wrinkled woman with 
a very few threads of gray in her black hair, on 
her head a mass of quilled lace, bugles and little 
blue and black bows, evidently a bonnet, and 
fully as large as the law allowed. As the bon- 
net’s wearer was dozing with her head against 
the straight cushion of the high-backed chair, 
the bonnet was well tilted down upon her fore- 

58 


'ME AND THOMAS HENBYT 


69 


head. The sleeper’s ample shoulders were fur- 
ther amplified by a cape made of frilled black 
lace and bugles; her stout arms were crossed 
over her lap, and her black-merino dress was 
ruffled quite up to the waist ; her feet, placed 
straight before her, on a second red-plush chair, 
exhibited the entire proportions of a pair of 
number six prunella boots. Although it was 
June, the sleeper was possessed of a wrap of 
reddish fur in the shape of a large cape that 
would reach nearly to her knees, and which was 
garnished around its entire lower edge by a row 
of closely-set reddish tails, which now, in the 
current from the open door, swayed to and fro 
as if alive. This fur mantle was lined with 
closely-quilted brown silk, and, being unfas- 
tened, fell back over and about the chair which 
the sleeper occupied. On a third chair, at her 
right hand, Margareth saw a large oval basket 
of wicker-work with a cover, a brown-silk um- 
brella, a paper parcel, a shawl-strap with a green 
shawl, and lastly a newspaper and a pair of 
black-silk mitts. All this made a fashion of 
defensive bulwark between the sleeper and the 
trespassing world as represented by Margareth. 
Probably the dame was not very sound asleep, 
for under the girl’s scrutiny she woke up — woke 
all-alert and good-natured : 

‘‘ Oh, my dear, I think we have not started 
yet? I believe I was taking a little nap.” 


60 


ROLAND’S DAUGHTER. 


I hope I did not disturb you V replied Mar- 
gareth, meekly. 

‘‘ Not at all, by any means ; I was just passing 
away a little lonely time. Besides, I was warm, 
and I had been up to Fulton street to get my 
lunch, and I was obliged to carry all these 
things, as there was no one here to take charge 
of them ; so I got a little tired. Did you ever 
go for your dinner up on Fulton street? A 
very nice little place, clean and reasonable ; and 
well cooked too.’’ 

I do not know any places in New York,” 
said Margareth. 

‘‘Possible? Well, I know a good many, and 
in other cities too. I’m a traveler. But then 
I’m older than you. But really, if you don’t 
know the city, it seems to me you should be 
out improving your mind by seeing Central 
Park or Goupil’s gallery or Broadway or the 
post-office or the Battery. Great cities are very 
improving places to visit, I do assure you, and 
young people should improve all their oppor- 
tunities.” 

“ Yes, but I do not feel like going out to-day, 
madam.” 

“No doubt it is just as well ; it is quite warm. 
Here is a chair between me and the door where 
you will be quite cool and comfortable, and. we 
can improve the time by conversing. When I 
travel, I always look out for some one with 


^ME AND THOAIAS HENRY: 


61 


whom I can converse; I enjoy it, and it is 
improving. I never know who my mate in a 
trip will be, but I always find one. The minute 
I opened my eyes and saw you I said to myself, 
‘ Here is my mate.’ You are alone and I am 
alone, and we can converse. I am Mrs. Quin- 
cey, and I live five miles out of Boston.” 

“ Oh, I am going to Boston too,” said Marga- 
reth, taking the seat, ‘‘ but I have never been 
there.” 

Then you’ve met just the right person to 
show you your way. It is a very crooked city, 
but it needn’t undertake to deceive me. I 
learned all about Boston before I went to 
other cities. Where do you think I have 
spent the winter?” 

Not in New York ?” ventured Margareth. 

‘‘No, my dear; in Washington. I am com- 
ing up late because Congress rose late — quite 
uncommonly late for me. I stayed to see the 
whole thing through, and I did last year also. 
Washington is quite as improving a place as 
one can find. You may think me rather late 
in life improving my mind, but what you can’t 
do early you must do late. To travel and com- 
pare was always my wish. The Lord did not 
open a way for me earlier in life, for one should 
never desert duties to travel and compare. But 
when in a manner a gate was set open to me, as 
if it had been said, ‘Mary Jane Quincey, you 


62 


ROLAND^ S DAUGHTER. 


may now travel and compare/ then I carried 
out my wish, and really, my dear, I enjoy it 
quite as much as if I were younger. God’s 
time is always a good time, though. When 
we get in a hurry, we are not apt to think so. 
How old would you take me to be?” 

Fifty-nine ? Sixty ?” suggested Margareth. 

‘‘ My dear, it is a positive fact : I shall be 
seventy in a month. Oh, I could tell you a 
history, my dear.” 

“ I am sure I should enjoy hearing it,” replied 
Margareth. 

“ What a boat this is ! A true floating palace. 
I do admire being in one of these boats or on 
a car. There were no cars and no steamboats 
like this when I was young ; I rode on horse- 
back, and then we had a shay. Sometimes — 
perhaps twice a year — I went to Boston. I 
always longed to go about and see other places 
and improve my mind by observing other peo- 
ple. Not that I ever hankered after foreign 
travels, for that, I knew, was quite out of the 
question for me. We were thrifty people in 
those days. My father had a good farm, but 
in those times men did not suppose that good 
farms or some money in the bank countenanced 
them in keeping their children in idleness. No, 
they gave them trades. It was two strings to the 
bow, my dear. My brother learned carpentry 
and I learned millinery, and we both knew how 


'ME AND THOMAS HENRY: 


63 


to manage a farm. My brother built the little 
shop in our village where I set up for a milli- 
ner ; it had shelves and counter and show-win- 
dow all complete. There I worked at my trade, 
and very popular I was, for I have a knack at 
making things. I made this bonnet and dress 
and cape, and all I have on. 

“ I worked till I was married ; and when one 
has a house and a millinery-shop and a child to 
do for, they have very little time to crave after 
foreign travel. After my husband died and my 
good mother had died, father being old, I went 
to the farm to take care of him, but along with 
my niece I kept the shop up still. My father 
lived to be eighty-eight ; he wasn’t young when 
he married. A very big man, my dear ; stood 
six feet four in stockings of my knitting, and 
weighed two hundred and fifty pounds. He 
was a deacon of the church ; he had read 
Scott’s commentaries through three times at 
family prayers, and he was the last of the 
Massachusetts tithing-men. 

‘‘ Perhaps you’d think the tithing-men a queer 
institution nowadays ; my son, Rufus Constantine, 
says they would ‘interfere with the liberty of 
the individual.’ I say to him, ‘ Rufus Constan- 
tine, don’t cast any reflections on the duties of 
your grandfather, who was a man well esteemed 
long before you or I were born.’ As for the 
liberty of the individual I wish it were more 


64 


ROLAND DA UOHTER 


interfered with than it is at present. The in- 
dividual takes too many liberties in the line of 
swearing and Sabbath-breaking and universal 
disorder. Now, in my father’s time of tithing- 
men, he walked out on the Sabbath morning 
with a small rod of office over his shoulder ; 
and if he met people walking abroad, he stop- 
ped them and inquired where they were going. 
If it was for a doctor, or a doctor going to the 
sick or to help a sufferer, or to go to church, all 
right ; but if it was for visiting or business or 
pleasuring, he sent them right-about, and home 
they went. You’d think that queer nowadays, 
but it worked very well then ; and most orderly 
and thriving people we were in Massachusetts, 
and the blessing of the Lord was in the lot of 
the righteous. Well, as I told you, I ’tended 
my father to the last, and he died blessing me ; 
and it is a great comfort to a daughter to have 
her father’s last blessing: it warms your heart 
right up. However, that was after the war. I 
must go back. Do you remember the war, my 
dear 

No ; I was too small to know anything about 
it.” 

‘'So much the better for you,” said Mrs. 
Quincey, heartily. “ The war is one of those 
things that you can thank God not to remember. 
Mercy me! I wonder I did not cry my eyes 
out those days. I cried for both sides. When 


AND THOMAS HENRY T 65 

there was a battle, so many lost on our side, I 
cried oceans of tears for them ; so many on the 
other, and I cried oceans more for them. I 
wonder I did not go blind, but the Lord pre- 
served me. Well do I remember the day when 
my brother Abraham Daniel came into my shop 
white as cotton and all out of breath. Says he, 

‘ Mary J ane, they’ve fired on our flag.’ 

‘ ’Spose they have ?” says I, quite cool in my 
ignorance, measuring off some ribbon. ‘ If the 
flag’s spoiled, can’t we make another one ?’ 

“‘Mary Jane,’ says Abraham Daniel, ‘that 
ever I should hear such wicked, reckless words 
out of your mouth !’ 

“ ‘ I should like to know what’s wicked and 
reckless,’ I says. ‘ I’m sorry if the flag’s hurt, 
but what’s a flag but cloth ? and another can be 
made ; I could do it myself. If they’d fired on 
a man, now, it would be a very different thing : 
they might have killed him, and it’s hard work 
making a man, and every man has mother or 
sister or sweetheart or wife to be heart-set on 
him. No, Abraham Daniel; I hold to what I 
said. I’m glad they didn’t fire on a man, to 
make blood flow ; and if they damaged the flag, 
I know it was quite unintentional.’ 

“ ‘ Well, Mary Jane,’ says my brother, ‘ I as- 
sure you this will make much blood flow and 
occasion the firing on many more ;’ so he walked 
out of my shop. 

6 


66 


ROLAND^ S DAUGHTER. 


Well did I learn what war meant later. IVe 
heard tell of the Age of Gold, the Iron Age, the 
Bronze Age : I call war-time the Age of Black 
Bonnets. My dear, I might have got rich mak- 
ing black bonnets and veils if it had not been 
far from me to thrive on the loss of my neigh- 
bors. My shop looked like an undertaker's 
room. As for profit, I just barely charged for 
the black bonnets the cost of the material whole- 
sale. I got such a fame for doing them reason- 
able that I had orders from far and near. Well, 

I thanked the Lord when the Age of Black 
Bonnets was reasonably well over. The first 
white bonnet I made was a wedding-bonnet for 
the girl my son married. He set up on a farm 
for himself ; fifteen years they have been mar- ‘ 
ried, but they haven’t any children.” 

‘‘ I suppose you are sorry for that ?” said Mar- 
gareth, as Mrs. Quincey paused with a sigh. The 
sigh was possibly a taking of breath, not a hint 
of regret, for Mistress Quincey responded briskly : 

Well, I don’t know as I am. Seems to me 
people don’t know how to bring up children 
these days. They spoil them ; they let them 
have their own way, and don’t keep them steady 
at work, and let them run around at loose-ends 
until they go to destruction and break the hearts 
of the entire family. If I was to be insured that 
the children would grow up good citizens and 
good Christians, I should wish there were twen- 


“MjE and THOMAS HENBY» 67 

ty of them. However, if they haven^t children, 
they have cats : they have fifteen cats.’’ 

‘‘ What do they do with so many cats ?” que- 
ried Margareth. 

‘‘ Four of them they keep at the house and 
treat them like ladies and gentlemen ; one of the 
four — the best one, Caesar Napoleon — wears a 
red collar, has a bed in a basket, his special rug 
to sit on and a chair at table, where he eats out 
of a plate quite genteel. The other eleven are 
plebeian cats and live at the barn, but they are all 
well taken care of, and all know better than to 
worry chickens. 

‘‘ Well, my dear, my son being well married 
and I having the snug little house my father left 
me, and the rent of the farm and a bit of money 
laid up in bank, I sold out the shop to my niece, 
and, being past sixty, I thought it was only right 
to have my leisure a little. So I settled down 
quiet with my Thomas Henry. I really wish 
you knew Thomas Henry. He is the most af- 
fectionate creature, and so intelligent, and as 
handsome as a pink ; he has such beautiful eyes ! 
Thomas Henry is devoted to me. I enjoy his 
society immensely, and his morals are excellent : 
but then he has been properly brought up, in 
old-fashioned style. No modern-nonsense train- 
ing for Thomas Henry. I stood a little about 
taking him to Washington. I knew he wanted 
to go, I knew he would miss me, but, thinking it 


68 


ROLAND^S DAUGHTER. 


all over, I said to him, ^ No, Thomas Henry ; you 
cannot go. It is best for young people to stick 
to the farm. Your morals are now good ; you 
are contented and your conscience is quiet. I 
couldn’t answer for you if you were exposed to 
the bad manners of the city. You might take 
to wandering off nights; you might get noisy; 
you might even begin to depredate. Congress 
sits in Washington, Thomas Henry, and I could 
not answer for your morals if you went there.’ 
Thomas Henry is my cat.” 

And what did you finally conclude to do with 
him ?” 

“ Why, having reasoned it all out with him, I 
took him to my son’s to board. I told them I 
wished Thomas Henry to be treated like a gen- 
tleman, and for them to make him feel quite 
happy and independent ; I should pay his board. 
Oh, I’m very particular as to Thomas Henry’s 
morals and manners ; I don’t let him go in bad 
company. They wanted me to send him to the 
cat-show, but I told them no ; he might learn 
more spitting and scratching and miauing — 
which is cat-swearing — in one week in a pro- 
miscuous cat-show than he would ever forget so 
long as he lived. I told him, ‘ Thomas Henry, 
I do not think it would be best for you to go to 
the cat-show : it might spoil your temper or give 
you some disease; and if you took a prize, it 
would foster your vanity. Stay at home quietly, 


AND THOMAS HENRYr 69 

Thomas Henry, and you shall have as good a 
beefsteak as there is in the market/ ’’ 

Did he know you when you came home last 
year 

‘‘ Well, at first I think he was a little mixed 
up ; but when I spoke and smiled, he came purr- 
ing to me and rubbed against me, and stood up 
and put his fore-paws on my arm, and crimpled 
them as cats do when very pleased. I hope he 
will remember me when I get home to-morrow. 
I am taking him some macaroons. He is very 
fond of macaroons, and I give him one every 
Sunday. You really should see Thomas Henry; 
he sits by me at table, but he never even looks 
for a bite till the blessing is asked. When I sit 
down for my morning worship, he sits on his 
cushion opposite me, and don’t move a hair. 
Sunday, when I am reading and meditating, he 
sits beside me on a chair, and, though he cannot 
read, I am sure he meditates. When I am doing 
up my work, I talk to Thomas Henry, and often 
tell him how different the world is now from 
what it was when I was young. When two 
people are in a house living alone together, 
they fall into a way of having much conversa- 
tion ; and that’s me and Thomas Henry.” 

And are things so different now from what 
they were in your young days ?” asked Marga- 
reth, finding her anxieties much beguiled by this 
easy-flowing chat of Mrs. Quincey. 


70 


ROLAND'S DAUGHTER. 


‘‘ Indeed they are ! There is such a difference 
in the style of living ! People run so after fash- 
ions now. Once they made a thing to suit them 
and wore it till it wore out. And I tell you things 
did wear in those days. There was no shoddy 
then. Silks didn’t crack, nor satins grow shiny, 
nor woolens get faded. I made a bonnet once 
that an old lady wore ten years right on, and 
very well she looked in it too. But, my dear, 
of all the changes in fashion, none hurts me 
like the changes I find in church. In my 
young days we had a morning church with a 
good solid sermon an hour or more long. We 
had doctrme preached to us then, my dear, and 
we knew what the parson was talking about ; the 
doctrines he laid down plain, so that a fool might 
not err therein, and he clinched them all with 
Scripture. The way they handled truths in 
those days reminds me of Abraham Daniel 
setting in a right particular nail : he drove it 
home straight and square with three or four 
blows hit as hard as he could; he clinched it 
on the other side, so it held fast and sure, after 
he had driven it below the surface with two 
good thumps at it on a nail-set; and then he 
puttied up the hole over the head and laid a 
little dab of paint on the putty. Catch any 
of his work coming to pieces! And so with 
our good parsons in the old time: they made 
folks sure of what they were talking about. 


*ME AND THOMAS HENRY: 


71 


There’s many parsons nowadays deliver to the 
people much about what is called metaphysics 
and ancient history and biology, also other 
ologies, I make no doubt they are all excel- 
lent college-learned things, but, after all, there’s 
many plain people and poor sinners like myself 
would thrive better on the old style of pulpit work. 

And I notice that the new style don’t seem 
to produce quite such solid, thoroughgoing Chris- 
tians, especially among the young. In those days 
a man could scarcely attend one day’s preaching, 
let alone three months of it, and fail to know 
that he was an out-and-out sinner, and that God 
is so holy that he cannot look on sin with any 
degree of allowance. Also he would find out 
that God had prepared a way whereby his ban- 
ished might return to him, and that that way is 
the only one he recognizes, and that it won’t pay 
men to get up any new-fangled way of recon- 
ciliation to God, because God won’t countenance 
any of them. In those days they didn’t slur 
over the solemn doctrine of the blood shed on 
the cross — no, my dear ; and when they preached 
on one-half the verse, ‘ The Lord is merciful and 
gracious, slow to anger and plenteous in mercy ; 
forgiving iniquity, transgression and sin,’ they 
didn’t slur over the other half of it : ‘ and will 
by no means clear the guilty.’ No, they set to 
and showed how he could spare the guilty by 
laying on Jesus Christ the iniquity of us all. 


72 


ROLAND DAUGHTER. 


Parsons let folks know, those days, that there 
must be downright confessing and forsaking and 
repenting of sin if there was to be forgiving. 
People didn’t make bold to show how dishonest 
and shameful it was for Lord Bacon to take 
bribes and not execute justice, and then show 
up God as saying one thing and doing another, 
or winking at sin, or sliding over justice as a 
very small affair. 

But I mustn’t forget that the real old gospel 
is preached in many a place. Last Sunday I 
was in Philadelphia; it rained, but of course I 
went to church, and well was I paid. In the 
morning I found my way into a Presbyterian 
church, and there I heard such a good gospel- 
preach out of the New Testament as made my 
heart glad. In the afternoon, seeing a church 
door open, I walked in, and the Methodists were 
having a missionary meeting, and I felt as if 
from all the ends of the earth a company of 
God’s children had gathered and were sitting 
on the hills of glory with great delight. In 
the evening I went out again, and that time I 
got into a Lutheran church, and an old man 
with white hair preached out of the Old Tes- 
tament, and it seemed just to bring the whole 
plan of salvation and the whole Church in all 
time right together to rejoice in what the Lord 
had done for them. Oh, no ; the good old gos- 
pel is not dead — not at all.” 


^ME AND THOMAS HENRY: 


73 


Mrs. Quincey paused to rest and to meditate 
on what she had heard the previous Sabbath ; 
then she resumed : 

‘‘ Now I am going home, I shall get Thomas 
Henry, open my little house, clean it, do my 
sewing, see my friends, work with our societies 
of all kinds until after Thanksgiving, and then, 
if the Lord spares me well, I will travel off 
again. You see, about five years ago I sat 
thinking, when it seemed as if a voice in my 
mind said, ‘Mary Jane Quincey, you always 
wanted to go about to see other places and 
people and improve your mind ; now the Lord 
has given you time and health and means : what 
is to hinder ? Go ! No doubt the Lord means 
you to go. Like a kind father, he grants the 
wish of his child’s heart.’ So I consulted my 
son, and he said, ‘ Go, mother, by all means. If 
you get sick. I’ll come after you. You earned 
your money by hard work, and I want you to 
use it to your own satisfaction. I’m comfort- 
able; you go enjoy yourself.’ So I went. I 
have visited and stayed months or weeks in 
Philadelphia, Baltimore, Washington, Kich- 
mond, and I have traveled about some and 
have seen sights. I enjoy it. I make friends. 
I always find some real nice person like you to 
talk to. You need not think I travel in style. 
Oh no! I have not money for that. I go 
cheap. Now, for instance, I shall not pay out 


74 


BOLAND DAUGHTER. 


one or two dollars for a room. Oh no ! I shall 
just have a berth in the ladies’ cabin or a mat- 
tress on the floor for no extra charge ; I shall be 
just as comfortable. I shall not pay fifty cents 
or a dollar for my supper ; in this basket I have 
plenty for my supper and breakfast. That is 
the way I travel. Now, you, my dear, I sup- 
pose have a room?” 

‘‘ No,” said Margareth ; they told me all the 
rooms would be gone. And, besides, I have not 
money enough for one.” 

‘‘There’s no need; I will tell the stewardess 
to give you a mattress right beside mine, and 
you will be as safe and comfortable as you please. 
Then I shall be so glad for some one to share my 
lunch ; it is so lonely eating alone. At home I 
have Thomas Henry. Now I will tell you how 
I live in Washington. I suppose rich women 
would use in a month or a week what does me 
for a year. I get a little furnished room — I 
don’t mind going high up, so it is clean and 
sunny — and I make sure of a little stove in it. 
Then on that little stove I can make a cup of 
tea, toast a slice of bread, boil an egg. I get my 
breakfasts and suppers so, and go out for my din- 
ners. Washington is a great place to get a good 
cheap meal ; you can get a good dinner — one that 
will satisfy your hunger — for fifteen cents or a 
quarter of a dollar. Also, you can get dinners for 
terribly high prices. A little while ago, going 


“Jf£; AND THOMAS HENRYT 75 

up Capitol Hill, I saw a very pretty, elegantly- 
dressed lady who looked kind of lost. So I 
stepped up : 

“ ‘ I am acquainted here, ma’am ; can I do 
anything for you?’ 

‘‘ Says she, 

“ ‘ Why, I want to see the White House and 
the House of Representatives and the Treasury, 
and I don’t know the way.’ 

“ So I said, 

“ ‘ Well, I know them all just like my own 
kitchen ; and if you’ll let me show you about, I 
shall be very happy.’ 

‘‘ So I took her about till four o’clock. Then 
she asked me to go with her to a restaurant for 
dinner, but I said I would go and sit by while 
she ate, and I should have my cup of tea and 
boiled egg and slice of cold meat when I got 
home. So, as I would not let her order for me, 
she ordered for herself ; and such a dinner ! Of 
all the fol-de-rols ! and she nipping a little of 
this and a little of that, and seeming to take 
pleasure in calling for things out of season that 
cost high. At last she ordered in a bottle of wine 
and urged me to have a glass, which I refused, 
and she poured it out and drank it off so liberal ! 
and at that I could not hold my tongue. 

^ Oh, madam,’ I said, ‘ if you had known as 
I have what bitter woe comes from wine, never 
could you touch a drop. Oh, I beg you never, 


76 


ROLAND'S DAUGHTER. 


never touch another drop; it may bring you 
with shame and sorrow to your grave.’ 

‘‘ ‘ Not so bad as that I hope,’ she says, laugh- 
ing a little. ‘ I have come into a fortune, and I j 
mean to enjoy it.’ : 

‘‘ ‘ Don’t enjoy it ruining yourself and your 
soul,’ said I. ‘ I see your cheque for that din- 
ner is nine dollars, which would be nearly all I 
spend in two weeks. I pray you remember 
money is to use right and render an account 
for to God; and wine I beg you give up, for 
it biteth like a serpent and stingeth like an 
adder, as well I know.’ ” I 

Margareth looked up with one swift glance, j 
The girl’s keen intuition read some unspoken woe 
in Mrs. Quincey’s life. She had noticed how < 
the good woman had passed over in silence her ^ 
husband and her married life. Some dagger . 
had there entered her soul. 

Mrs. Quincey caught her look. j 

My dear,” she said, I warn you also. With , 
any that drink have nothing in this world to i 

. . j 

“ If I cannot help it ?” queried Margareth. | 
« Why, if it comes in the order of nature, as j 
father or brother or child, why one has only to i 
cast the burden on the Lord and ask for strength ' 
according to our day. But I warn you, who are 
young and so very pretty, never love nor marry 
any man that drinks.” 


“3/J5 AND THOMAS HENRY” 77 

‘‘That I never will/’ said Margareth, earn- 
estly. 

“One lovely young creature in Washington, 
in the same house with me, first fioor, I do re- 
member — she a judge’s daughter and he a mil- 
lionaire’s son, and one child as pretty as a picture. 
She loved her husband, I can tell you, and his 
one fault was drink, which his folks hoped mar- 
rying would put an end to ; but it did not, so at 
last the only way to get on, as he devastated 
everything, was to send them two hundred a 
month, and then, as he used that up in two 
days, his folks sent it to her. So this winter 
he saw her coming from the bank after cashing 
the cheque, and a month’s board and other bills 
were due. So he softly followed her to the room, 
and as she laid down her pocket-book while* 
taking off her hat he snatched it and ran. 
She only thought of the bills due, and of her 
shame to write next day for more and say how 
this had gone. So, as he ran, she ran after him, 
and right into the street, he flying first and she 
without coat or hat, her pretty hair all falling 
about her face. And with that some one cries 
‘Stop thief!’ and a big police he out with a foot 
before the running man and trips him down flat 
on his face. She comes up : 

“ ‘ Oh, is he hurt ? Is he hurt ?’ 

“ ‘ No, he’s not hurt. Is this your pocket- 
book, miss?’ 


78 


ROLAND'S DAUGHTER. 


‘ Oh yes ! Thank you ! Oh, is he hurt Y 

“ ‘ No, and Idl have him to the jail, and you’ll 
appear against him to-morrow.’ 

“ ‘ No, no ! I’ll never appear against him. 
Let him go.’ 

“ ‘ I’ll be hanged,’ says the policeman, ‘ if I 
catch a thief and let him go. What fool do you 
take me for ?’ 

‘ He is not a thief,’ says she ; ‘ it is my hus- 
band. Please bring him home for me. The 
money came from his mother for our board-bill, 
and I was so frightened ! He took it because — 
he has been — drinking — you see.’ 

So the policeman pitied her, she crying and 
so young and pretty, and he pulled him along 
home and got him laid on the lounge, though he 
‘swore more than I could have desired. When 
he got sober, the young man laughed it off and 
went on as bad as ever ; but she, poor soul ! did 
not look herself for a long while. She was so 
ashamed ! He’ll drink himself to death and 
break her heart. So, my dear, take warning.” 

Mistress Quincey had so winged the time with 
anecdotes and reminiscences that four o’clock had 
come and passed ; the boat was filling with pas- 
sengers, and state-rooms and berths were being 
distributed. Mrs. Quincey said they should go 
to the ladies’ cabin. Margareth, taking her 
heavy portmanteau, followed that experienced 
traveler Mrs. Quincey down stairs. Having 


^ME AND THOMAS HENRY: 


79 


spoken for two mattresses and consigned part 
of their luggage to the stewardess, Mrs. Quin- 
cey reconducted Margareth to the deck, where 
they watched the final bustle of loading and 
departing. 

‘‘To-morrow this time,’’ said Mrs. Quincey, 
“ I shall be at home, keeping house, me and 
Thomas Henry. What do you think ? One 
day this last winter a telegram came to me. 
‘ My goodness !’ says I ; ‘ now I know something 
has happened, and I must leave Washington and 
go home before Congress breaks up.’ Why, I 
felt just as if the entire affairs of the nation 
would go to pieces. So I opened the telegram, 
and all it said was, ‘ Thomas Henry is well and 
hopes you will come soon.’ My son went and 
sent that just for mischief, do you see?” 

At last the steamer was off Slowly it swung 
out from the dock, and then puffed along among 
the crowded shipping, by the islands with the 
villas and the islands with the refuges and 
penitentiaries, out into the sound. Mrs. Quin- 
cey produced her lunch-basket and had supper 
with Margareth. 

“ My dear,” she said, after this ceremony, “ I 
like to improve my mind by observing other 
people. I have told you a good bit about my- 
self ; suppose you tell me something about your- 
self Have you been to school ? Are you go- 
ing to your friends — to your parents ?” 


80 


ROLAND'S DAUGHTER. 


Margareth considered with herself that she 
might as well tell Mrs. Quincey something of 
her story ; the good dame knew all about Bos- 
ton, and could tell her where to find her father. 
She explained her circumstances, and told the 
events of her escape from school and her jour- 
ney. 

‘‘ Three years is a long while not to hear from 
a father,” said Mrs. Quincey, “and you make 
sure yoju heard from him now?” 

Margareth, flushing, handed over her father’s 
letter. 

“Yes, I see,” said Mrs. Quincey. “But are 
you certain it is not some one writing in his 
name ? The world is full of wickedness. Per- 
haps this is a forgery.” 

“ Miss Cade didn’t doubt, and she is used to 
his letters. You see, it is a very beautiful and 
not common script. I have two other letters 
from him in my portmanteau.” 

“ Suppose you compare them ?” suggested the 
wary Mrs. Quincey. 

Margareth went into the cabin and got the 
letters. 

Mrs. Quincey studied them carefully before 
delivering an opinion : 

“ Yes, I should say it was the same. I’m not 
so easy to deceive, if I have a simple way of 
talking about Thomas Henry; I study the 
world in Thomas Henry and myself. And 


^ME AND THOMAS HENRY: 


81 


you say the teacher wanted to keep you on 
account of a three years’ bill?” 

“ Oh no, only one year by rights ; for the other 
two I have paid in my work. I suppose she did 
not like to lose my help just as it was getting to 
be more valuable. But I am sure I gave enough 
for what I had. She got nine hundred dollars 
a year for the twins, and I did everything for 
them. I taught them and took all the care of 
them.” 

I’ve no doubt. But some natures never can 
be satisfied ; the more you do for them, the more 
they demand. I think, my dear, that you will 
need to grow up and have more experience of 
the world and of its dangers before you will ap- 
preciate how the Lord has taken care of you in 
this journey. Truly, he has protected you and 
kept you. It seems to me you are a bit of work 
he has handed over to me, saying, ‘Mary Jane 
Quincey, look after this child.’ I sha’n’t leave 
you, my dear, until I see you safe at the place 
named in this letter and find your father is there 
expecting you.” 

“ I’m sure you’re very good,” said Margareth. 
“ It makes me feel quite safe.” 

“And don’t expect too much when you get 
there. You see, something must be wrong, or 
tliere would not have been three years’ silence 
and the bill standing. You may be going into 
the storms of life, but make sure that the Lord 


82 


ROLAND^S DAUGHTER. 


can care for his own. The way may be rough 
and hard, my dear, and you will need his help, 
but he will give it.” 

Margareth herself felt this presentiment of 
coming ill. As she neared her journey’s end 
the shadows of trouble seemed to darken all the 
way before her, and to wave out as sable banners 
from walls of blackness where fate would draw 
her in out of light and hope. She dreaded what 
she might find her father to be — that something 
which she had named and hinted to no one. 
Yet what could she do but go straight on to 
find him and to do her duty by him? 

Margareth slept little on the boat that night. 

Early in the morning they were on the cars 
for Boston. 

‘‘ We’ll get on a street-car right at the station 
and go straight to that address; it is quite on my 
way. When we get to the place, you will go in 
and see if your father is there and expecting 
you, and I’ll stay on the sidewalk. You can 
come out and tell me how it turns out. If all 
is right. I’ll go on my way. But make sure I’ll 
call on you, my dear, the first time I come to 
Boston.” 

“Yes, do, do!” said Margareth; “I haven’t a 
friend there.” After a pause she suddenly 
asked, “But, Mrs. Quincey, suppose I should 
not find my father; what then?” 

“ I’d stop all day and help you find him.” 


AND THOMAS HENRYK 83 

But suppose — suppose the letter was forged 
or he was dead ; what then V asked Margareth, 
with a quiver. 

“ Child, it’s a good old proverb, ‘ Do not cross 
a bridge till you come to it.’ And I’ve always 
found that if the Lord leads you straight up to 
what seems a blank wall, he also shows you 
some little door in it.” 

The city was reached, then the street- car, and 
Mrs. Quincey and her impedimenta, and Marga- 
reth and her big portmanteau, rolled down the 
long street. 

My dear, here’s our place,” said Mrs. Quin- 
cey. 

They were on the sidewalk. Margareth looked 
about bewildered. Not a dwelling-house was in 
sight; all were places of business on the steep, 
narrow street. 

“ It is that corner building opposite,” said 
Mrs. Quincey. 

The building indicated was ancient. The 
front was crooked, clapboarded, full of little 
windows, and would have seemed about to roll 
into the street had not the side been reinforced 
by a strong new brick wall. Across the build- 
ing, in black letters a foot high, was the legend, 
‘‘Old Original Toy-Shop.” The low doorway 
and the windows, clear to the top of the build- 
ing, seemed bursting with toys, which overflowed 
upon boxes and shelves along the sidewalk. 


84 


ROLAND^S DAUGHTER. 


Dolls hung by the neck ; rattles, whips, mallets, 
were tied in bundles ; picture-books were strung 
along miniature clothes-lines ; tops and bells were 
piled up like ammunition in a fort ; tin horses 
pranced with their legs in the air; liliputian 
dishes were spread out on liliputian tables ; 
woolly sheep on wheels thrust their inquiring 
noses into automatic engines and grinning 
masks looked down on Noah’s arks, while 
dolls, bureaus and cradles, and rocking-horses’ 
heads, and fancy-baskets and boxes, peered 
through the windows of the entire three sto- 
ries, until one wondered not to see them rising 
up like overlight dough and bubbling through 
the squat chimneys and flowing down upon the 
black-shingled roof. 

Terrible trap for a fire, that,” reflected Mrs. 
Quincey. ‘‘We may as well go across. You 
step in and inquire while I wait on the curb- 
stone.” 

Margareth opened the store door; it was 
draped with hoops and jumping-ropes that 
swung as the door opened, and Margareth’s 
big portmanteau nearly overset a willow work- 
table, and then incontinently overthrew a stack 
of tin toy dishes. 

“Does Professor Roland live in this build- 
ing?” she asked of a stout woman who came 
out of the obscurity occasioned by the toy- 
crowded state of the windows. 


AND THOMAS HENRYP 85 

‘‘Yes; third floor, first door on the left-hand 
side. Are you his daughter?’’ 

“ Oh, he is expecting me ? How is he ? Very 
sick?” 

“ He’ll do, I guess. You can’t carry that 
vallis up them narrow stairs ; you’d knock 
down a bushel of toys. I’ll have my boy take 
it up when he comes in ; he’ll run it up on his 
head. Go on up ; there’s only two sets of stairs. 
Keep right in the middle of them ; they’re safe, 
if they are dark.” 

Margareth ran out to Mrs. Quincey, who was 
patiently waiting for her : 

“ I have found him. He is expecting me ; he 
is better. Thank you so much ! And you will 
come and see me ?” 

“ Sure and certain,” replied Dame Quincey ; 
and when Margareth had returned to the shop 
and then run up the dark stairs, Mrs. Quincey 
entered the “ Old Original Toy-Shop,” bought a 
blue-morocco collar with a gilt bell for Thomas 
Henry, and, leaning over the counter, was soon 
on very confldential terms with the stout pro- 
prietor of so many toys. 

A low murmur of question, answer, explana- 
j tion ; a shrugging of the toyseller’s shoulders ; 
various editions of “Oh! Ah, dear!” in all 
kinds of type, from Diamond to Great Primer. 
At the end of the conference some sort of a 
compact of friendship seemed to have been 


86 


BOLAND’S DAUGHTER. 


made, for the two suddenly shook hands. The 
owner of the coys said, 

‘‘ Do drop in again ; I shall be most particu- 
lar pleased to see you, and I’ll give you a hint 
of how things is going.” 

‘‘I certainly shall. I’ve been traveling and 
observing all winter, and I may say I am carry- 
ing on my observations straight up to my own 
doorsteps quite as useful as any made at any 
time. This world, my dear, is full of histories 
— chockful, indeed ; as full as your shop of toys 
with which simile in mind, the worthy Mrs. 
Quincey wended her way to her home and 
Thomas Henry. 


CHAPTER V. 


THE HEAD OF THE FAMILY, 

“ But you, sir — you are hard to please ; 
You never look but half content, 

Nor like a gentleman at ease 

With moral breadth of temperament.” 



P the steep, narrow flights of stairs. Marga- 


^ reth was dimly conscious that little wheel- 
barrows and express-wagons hung on hooks on 
either side ; furthermore, boxes of German vil- 
lages and farmyards and dissected maps and 
ninepins piled on each side of each step dimin- 
ished the width of the passage-way. The hall 
above afibrded storage for drums, small chairs, 
doll-houses and bird-cages. She had been told 
to go to the flrst door on the left-hand side of 
the hall. There she knocked, and, not hearing 
any answer, she opened the door and walked in. 

JVIargareth had a dim realization of a large 
and disorderly room. A window was opposite 
the door, and between this window and Marga- 
reth was an untidy table supposably set for 
breakfast, but with very little upon it. In an 
arm-chair at this table, with his back to Mar- 
gareth, was a large man with curled black locks 


87 


88 


ROLAND'S DAUGHTER. 


that seemed to the girl dimly familiar flowing 
over his shoulders. The owner of the curled 
locks wore a dark cashmere dressing-gown with 
frayed velvet collar and cufis. Facing him, in a 
high -chair, sat an exceedingly small specimen of 
the genus girl-child — a specimen with a crop of 
tangled yellow curls, a very pale and dirty little 
countenance and a solemn, aged expression. This 
human morsel opened a minute mouth, extended 
a lean finger and oracularly announced the in- 
truder : 

“ Ladyr 

The vis-a-vis of the small female leaped to his 
feet and turned. After five years Margareth 
and her father were face to face. There was a 
short moment of hesitation. In those five years 
the father had grown stouter, redder in complex- 
ion, redder in eyes and larger in nose than Mar- 
gareth had remembered him. She, on the other 
hand, from a slim, frolicsome ten-year-old, had 
become the tall, calm, earnest-eyed girl. Let us 
say “ the woman,” for with the opening of that 
door all Margareth’s childhood had fallen from 
her like some dainty parti-colored raiment for 
which there was neither use nor fitness in this 
advancing sternness of her fate. 

The hesitation was but for a second. M. Tul- 
lius Roland stepped forward with open arms and 
effusive exclamation : ‘‘ My daughter ! My beau- 
tiful, peerless Margareth !” and Margareth, re- 


THE HEAD OF THE FAMILY. 


89 


spending to the voice of Nature in her own soul, 
sprang to his arms : Oh, father, father !” For 
five years she had seen no one of her kin, no one 
who had a natural right to love her. Changed 
as he might be. Professor M. Tullius Roland was 
yet a very handsome man with a straight, stately 
figure, fine features, flowing silken hair, always 
holding himself with a conscious dignity. 

‘‘ And you did not hesitate to come to me, my 
faithful child ! And your schoolmistress, I hope, 
is well ? She made all easy for you to come to 
me 

‘‘ She made nothing easy at all ; she did noth- 
ing.’’ 

‘‘ Except get your tickets ?” 

‘‘ She did not get my tickets.” 

‘‘ That was exceedingly careless ; a young trav- 
eler like you might have made some mistake. 
She should have gone to the station with you, or 
sent a servant, instead of letting you go alone. 
However, she gave you money for the tickets 
and plenty for possible emergencies, I hope?” 

“ She did not give me a cent. She refused to 
let me come, so I took my things and ran away, 
as you needed me. However, I came through 
all safely.” 

‘‘ It is the most barbarous and inhuman thing 
I ever heard of in my life!” cried M. Tullius 
Roland, with honest indignation. “ The woman 
is a monster; she deserves prosecution. My 


90 


ROLAND^S DAUGHTER. 


child, my young daughter, reduced to such ex- 
tremities ! What might have befallen you ! Is 
this a specimen of the honor of the nineteenth 
century ?” 

The professor stopped : Margareth’s eyes had 
wandered past him. There was a bed at the 
farther end of the room, and that bed was not 
empty. M. Tullius Roland hesitated a little, but 
drew himself valiantly together to meet the in- 
evitable. He took Margareth’s hand, led her 
ceremoniously to the untidy bed, and began his 
flourishing oration : 

My dearest daughter, this is — ah ! — your — 
This, Margareth, is — Oh, she is my wife 

Was it some sudden flood of sympathy rush- 
ing with the crimson into the beautiful girl-face, 
or was it the strong contrast of so much youth, 
health, hope, possibility ? A pair of faded blue 
eyes swiftly closed, a thin, pallid face was sud- 
denly hidden under the sheet, and a storm of 
sobs shook the tumbled bedclothes. Then, be- 
tween the sobs, weakly mingling with them, 
came a sound that Margareth had never before 
heard — the wail of a very young and very feeble 
infant. It is that sound which God has ordained 
shall go swiftest and straightest to the heart of 
every real woman. She may be deaf to the 
voice of love or of flattery or allurement, but 
into her inmost soul will enter and find answer 
the weeping of an infant, even as the heart of 


THE HEAD OF THE FAMILY. 91 

Pharaoh’s daughter was moved in compassion 
when ‘‘the babe wept.” 

Margareth, with quiet force, released the bed- 
clothes from the thin, nervous hands, turned them 
back a little, and there, bundled up in flannel, 
was a miserable little child some ten days old. 

“And you are my father’s wife?” inquired 
Margareth, softly. 

“ Yes — oh yes ! And oh, I wish I was dead !” 

“ Are both these children yours ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Then, if I were in your place, I would not 
wish to be dead : little children need mothers. 
You will feel better when I have set things to 
rights here. Have you had breakfast?” 

“ I did not want any.” 

Margareth looked for her father. After in- 
troducing his unexpected family to his daughter, 
he had fled. In fact, he had fully intended to be 
absent when Margareth arrived, and to allow his 
family to introduce themselves. Failing in that, 
he made his disappearance with what haste he 
could. As Margareth realized his absence the 
door burst open to give entrance to her port- 
manteau, which seemed to have come without 
any human aid. 

Without the discipline of those last hard, bit- 
ter three years with Miss Cade, Margareth might 
now have sat down helpless or looked about dis- 
heartened ; as it was, she harvested where she 


92 


ROLAND'S DAUGHTER. 


had sown in tears. From her long training in 
that school of hardship she had this benefit — 
that she was in full possession of herself and 
her faculties. She set the door open, opened the 
second window, and then took her portmanteau 
to a room of which the door stood ajar, leading 
from the apartment she had entered. It seemed 
to be a sitting-room with a lounge-bed, which 
her father had evidently occupied. Presently 
she came back wearing the dark calico dress 
and great gingham apron which had been her 
regalia when doing housework for Miss Cade. 

Margareth was well endowed of Providence 
with that desirable quality common sense. She 
also had keen intuitions. She saw at a glance 
that this sick woman was pining away with dis- 
couragement, insufficient nourishment and anx- 
iety. She had said that she did not want any 
breakfast, not because she did not need any, but 
simply from inanition. Margareth divined that 
if the unfortunate mother saw her room and her 
children cared for and things falling into order, 
she might find an appetite. 

Have you done breakfast she said to the 
small girl. 

I did not want it — no,’’ said the child, ex- 
hibiting the same low physical conditions as the 
mother. 

Come, then. When we find a clean face and 
a row of curls for you, you will think better of 


THE HEAD OF THE FAMILY. 93 

breakfast. If I pull your hair, you must not 
cry ; we will leave crying for that small child 
in the bed. Did you ever hear ‘ Hickory dick- 
ory dock ’ or ‘ Little Jack Horner ’ ? Now I 
shall tell you those stories.’’ 

The toilet-apparatus was in the next room. 
Margareth brought it out, made the pale face 
and arms neat, curled the yellow hair, found a 
well-furnished work-basket in a corner and sewed 
on the child’s missing shoe-buttons, and then 
asked her to find a clean apron. The little maid 
indicated a drawer in the bureau, and the apron 
was put on. Margareth had in her bag an 
orange, given her by Mrs. Quincey. She cut 
this into small pieces, put them in a saucer, 
sugared them, cut into miniature slices the thick 
piece of bread which the child had rejected with 
dislike, and, putting the meal on a window-sill, 
tied the youngster fast in her high-chair before 
it : 

‘‘ Now, missy, you can get the air and your 
breakfast. Eat a little piece of orange, and then 
a bit of bread — first one, and then the other. 
That’s the way.” 

While the child ate and then sat contentedly 
at the window, Margareth put the room in 
order. 

“ I’m afraid you’ll find the children very vex- 
ing,” said the feeble voice from the bed. 

‘‘ I like children,” replied Margareth, briefly. 


94 


ROLAND’S DAUGHTER. 


“ It was very good of you to come ; I thought 
you would not.” 

“ I supposed, from the letter, that my father 
was sick and needed me to take care of him.” 

Didn’t he tell you I was the one sick ?” 

No.” 

‘‘But — but,” said the woman, earnestly, “he 
has told you all about me and the children?” 

“ No. In fact it was three years and more 
since I had had a word from him.” 

“Not a word? But he sent money for your 
bills?” 

“ No ; not a cent for three years.” 

There was a sob from the bed. 

“ Don’t cry,” said Margareth, gently. “ What 
difference does it make whether I knew it or not? 
I should have come all the same.” 

“ I didn’t think to be so helpless,” said the 
invalid, “but there was no one to take proper 
care of me or the children ; and I sat up in bed 
a week ago and tried to wash them, and it nearly 
killed me. The doctor said I might lie here all 
summer. Then your father wrote for you. I 
am sorry he had to do it.” 

“ You need not be sorry ; it was not so very 
pleasant where I was. But why didn’t my fa- 
ther wash the children?” 

“ He ? Why, he’s a man 

“ I don’t see as that excuses him from making 
himself useful,” answered Margareth, sharply. 


THE HEAD OF THE FAMILY. 


95 


She had many opinions evolved from her inner 
consciousness and experience, not gathered from 
Miss Cade’s teachings in the class-room. 

The apartment reduced to order, Margareth 
exchanged the big apron for a white one, and, 
taking her own purse — which, owing to the 
providential goodness of unlooked-for friends, 
still was furnished with the five dollars and a 
half — she went to a dairy which she saw across 
the street and bought half a dozen eggs, two 
fresh rolls and some milk. 

“ Now,” she said, cheerfully, when she came 
back, ‘‘you shall have your toilet.” 

From a bath-room at the end of the hall she 
got warm water, and, bringing it to the bedside, 
bethought herself to take out the animated flan- 
nel bundle and lay it on a pillow placed on a 
chair. 

“ I never saw any one so quick and handy,” 
sighed the poor mother, admiringly, as Margareth 
put water for tea-making on a little kerosene 
stove, and while breakfast was preparing combed 
her patient’s hair, made the bed, and further im- 
proved her appearance by bringing a silk tie 
from the work-basket and knotting it under her 
chin. Thus improved, the invalid found that 
she could eat a roll and an egg and drink a cup 
of tea. While this breakfast was in progress, 
Margareth freed her prisoner from the window 
and proceeded to wash the baby. 


96 


ROLAND^ S DAUGHTER. 


When does my father come in to his dinner?’’ 
she asked. 

He doesn’t come ; he has breakfast here, and 
sometimes he comes in to tea. He gets his din- 
ner at a restaurant. I had gotten into a habit 
of not having any dinner, only a bit of bread or 
a cracker for Persis and me.” 

No wonder you and Persis look so pale and 
thin,” pronounced Margareth, concealing her 
nervous alarm at her altogether novel task of 
washing a baby. She had noticed that in the 
closet where dishes and provisions were kept 
there was nothing in store except a little tea 
and coffee, some sugar in a paper, a stale loaf 
and some butter in a semi-fluid state. The head 
of the family seemed to be a poor provider. 
‘‘What is my father doing, to keep him out 
all day?” 

“ Oh, he is not doing so much, but, you see, 
this place is not what he is used to or has a right 
to expect — the third story over a toy-shop, and 
only two rooms, and Persis running about. It 
does well enough for me, but it is hard on a 
gentleman and a learned scholar like him. 
And then I’m no company for him ; I’ve only 
common-school education. I never could even 
teach a country school, and he’s been a college 
professor. I should have known that it would 
not make him happier to marry me, but now it 
can’t be helped ; only, of course, he is lonely here. 


THE HEAD OF THE FAMILY. 97 

and so he stays where he can find company 
suited to his taste.” 

“ Isn’t he doing anything asked Margareth. 
“ I won’t hurt this little thing turning it over 
and over, will I?” 

I’m sure you handle it as nice as can he. Do 
you see anything wrong about it ?” 

“ I don’t know what would be right ; I never 
before saw a baby so young. It seems terribly 
thin, but I suppose it will grow. And father ?” 

‘‘ I think he has a pupil or two in Latin, or 
writes letters for some one ; he picks up a little 
— what pays for his clothes and his dinners. 
You know, if he does not dress like a gentle- 
man, he will be out of the way of getting any- 
thing to do such as he is accustomed to. I’m 
sure, if he only could get a professorship or a 
secretaryship such as he wants, I would be very 
willing to stay here and not be in his way, if 
he would send me enough to keep the children 
with.” 

“ But if he only does enough to provide his 
clothes and dinners, who does the rest? Who 
takes care of you?” 

When we came here, I paid four years’ rent 
in advance to Mrs. Benson ; she keeps the shop. 
She is my second cousin, and I knew if we 
needed to leave I could relet, and get my money 
back. I brought things to furnish these rooms, 
and I’ve supported myself and Persis since, and 

7 


98 


ROLAND^ S DAUGHTER. 


paid for all I had, by sewing. But, you see, 
lately, what with running the machine all day 
and going up two pair of stairs and worrying 
about what would become of us, I rather broke 
down.’’ 

Margareth completed her task and the invalid 
finished her breakfast. 

‘‘I want you to do me a favor,” said the 
woman. 

“ What is that ?” 

Call me ‘ Harriet,’ please ; it would be all 
nonsense calling me ‘mother.’ I’m not old 
enough, though dear knows I look old enough, 
and I’m not a lady, like you ; and if you’ll call 
me ‘Harriet,’ I think I’ll feel more comfort- 
able.” 

“Very well. Now, when I clear away these 
things, I shall draw down the shades and you 
must take a sleep. I shall take Persis and put 
the other room in order. Where am I to stay ?” 

“ Mrs. Benson said if we would send for you 
you could have the little room at the end of the 
hall. I’m afraid it is not in order.” 

“I’ll put it in order; you are to think of 
nothing but keeping quiet and getting well. It 
is all nonsense to talk of lying there all summer ; 
now that you are taken care of, you will soon be 
better.” 

Margareth took Persis, and, having darkened j 
the large room, went into the smaller front apart- j 


THE HEAD OF THE FAMILY. 99 

merit, which she proceeded to set in thorough 
order. She had already learned several things 
about her father’s wife. She was a yielding, 
humble creature shamefully neglected; she was 
also industrious and cleanly. All the little es- 
tablishment gave token of scrupulous care, and 
the disorder was surface disorder, due only to 
the time of illness. 

As Margareth cleared up the front room she 
heard a sound of voices in the sick-chamber, and 
presently the mistress of the toy-shop came in 
where she was. She eyed Margareth, who stood 
duster in hand. 

‘‘ Heaven be praised ! YovJve got a heart,” 
she said. 

“ Very likely. I should be no more alive 
than one of your dolls else.” 

Well, there’s some folks as don’t show much 
heart, whatsoever they may have in their inter- 
nal economy. You’ve done that poor soul good 
already. Mark my words, no good deed is like 
water spilt on the ground that cannot be gath- 
ered again : it comes home some time. I stepped 
up to mention it is one o’clock and we are just 
having dinner, and I came to ask you down to 
eat with us ; and then, as you’re not used to this 
sort of housekeeping, I can tell you a thing or 
two about how we manage. Also, as soon as 
dinner is over. I’ll step up and help you set in 
order that little hall-room for yourself. It’s not 


100 


BOLAND’S DAUGHTER. 


much of a place — no doubt you’re used to bettei 
— but we’ll make it do.” 

Margareth remembered her late forlorn attic 
at Miss Cade’s, and concluded that it would do. 
Her present lot had its disadvantages, but she 
would no longer have Miss Cade’s sharp voice 
and bitter hints and taunts, nor the sick and 
scornful looks averse” of the girls — all except 
Hope Cornell. If she was to live in an attic 
and do drudgery, it would at least be for her 
kin. She promptly accepted the invitation to 
dinner ; she was not one of those to miss benefits 
by refusing them. Besides, she was honestly 
hungry, and Persis ought to be. So she gladly 
went down to the Benson establishment. 

Mrs. Benson had two daughters, who acted as 
clerks in her store, and a nephew from the coun- 
try, who was her errand-boy. The room in 
which they ate was as heterogeneous in its con- 
tents as the rest of the house. It seemed to be 
dining-room and sitting-room, and, besides the 
chairs, table and lounge belonging to the family, 
had a great basket of odds and ends of fancy 
dry goods and another basket of dolls ; the elder 
Miss Benson occupied her leisure in arraying the 
dolls in the fragments. A table furnished with 
silk, lace, fringe, glue, pictures, and a variety of 
like treasures, indicated where the junior Miss 
Benson devoted her spare time to making val- 
entines and Easter, Christmas, New Year’s and 


THE HEAD OF THE FAMILY. 


101 


birthday cards. The room had for frieze a rope 
on which were hung battledores, grace-sticks, 
jumping-jacks, kites ; for a dado it had an array 
of sleds and baby-coaches. In the space between, 
the Benson family carried on domestic avocations, 
and by long practice whisked about without knock- 
ing things down. 

The Benson family evidently did not starve 
themselves : for dinner they had salad, roast 
mutton and peas and pie. Mrs. Benson told 
Margareth that she could use her range when, 
as was usual, it had fire in it, for cooking any- 
thing that required time. The range was in a 
little back kitchen, and Mrs. Benson hospitably 
offered her some use of her refrigerator. 

‘‘ I’d do anything in reason for Harriet,” said 
Mrs. Benson : “ I have always liked her, and she 
always showed sense till she undertook to get mar- 
ried. Up there in Maine, where she lived, she had 
her neat little furnished house, all her own, and 
she let a room to summer lodgers, and, being the 
village dressmaker and seamstress, she lived in 
comfort and well respected. But there! some 
folks don’t know when they’re well off I’ve 
done what I could for her here. Many’s the 
time I’ve carried her a pie or a chop or a dish 
of salad, but I make sure she wasn’t the one 
that got the most part of ’em. She’d make her 
dinner of dry bread and a swallow of tea, and 
save up any tit-bit for his supper. But there 1 


102 


ROLAND^ S DAUGHTER. 


I won’t say any more,” concluded Mrs. Benson, 
recollecting that he was her auditor’s father. 

As Mistress Benson offered to show Margareth 
the nearest and cheapest grocer’s and meat-shop, 
and to give her some hints as to what could best 
be cooked on an oil stove, the two went out after 
dinner, taking Persis with them. Having re- 
turned and put soup and rice to cook on the 
range, Margareth went up stairs and prepared 
the hall-room for herself and Persis. Harriet 
had had a long sleep, and seemed less melan- 
choly. There was a pile of mending on the 
work-basket, and Margareth sat down to it. 

There is a woman who does my washing, and 
I sew for her,” said Harriet; ‘‘but she is getting 
in a hurry for two gingham dresses for her little 
girl and one for herself, and I’m afraid she’ll 
give them to some one else and stop working 
for me.” 

“ As for that,” said Margareth, “ I can make 
the dresses as well as anybody. I will go find 
her this evening, before dark, and tell her to 
send the girl and the goods here to-morrow. If 
all the food, fuel and light have come from your 
sewing, I suppose they must now come from 
mine. If my father has not been able to pro- 
vide for the house thus far, he probably will not 
after this; so where is the sewing to come 
from ?” 

“ Ned Benson goes for it and takes it back. 


THE HEAD OF THE FAMILY. 


103 


It seems dreadful for you to come here and nurse 
and do housework and sew. I’m afraid it will 
kill you.” 

‘‘Not for some months, at least,” said Mar- 
gareth, “and by that time you will be well 
again,” 

At supper-time Margareth brought up the rice 
and soup. 

“ But I shouldn’t eat soup at night ; I’m afraid 
it will keep me awake. I hardly sleep any 
nights now,” 

“ That is because you eat, not too much, but 
too little,” said Margareth. “ You are below the 
sleep-point. Big, full-blooded people can eat 
little or no supper, and they will sleep better, 
having less tendency of blood to the brain ; but 
persons feeble and bloodless as you are should 
take some strengthening food to bring them up 
to a point of healthful sleep. I’ve set up here 
for doctor and nurse, and my name is Dr, Com- 
mon Sense.” 

Finally, both the children were made ready 
for bed, and then Harriet fell asleep, Margareth 
locked the outer door of the sick-room, and, go- 
ing into the front room, lit a lamp and set the 
door wide open, so that her father should come 
there when he returned. He had left her all 
day without making any provision for her com- 
fort, or even for needful food, and it was eleven 
o’clock when he came in and found her reading 


104 


MOLAND^S DAUGHTER. 


by the table in the plain little sitting-room. 
Evidently, he wished she had gone to bed ; but 
his feelings and his tongue were usually unequal- 
ly yoked together : 

‘‘ My charming child, you will lose your bloom 
sitting up to this hour, after traveling all last 
night. Never sit up for me; it is delightful 
to find you here, but I must remember your 
good, not my pleasure. I am often late. A 
mind like mine requires the stimulation of suit- 
able companionship ; at home, as must already 
be plain to you, I have no society, and I go 
abroad to seek it. I am in a period of misfortune 
— ^in exile, in retirement, let us say, as was Cicero 
when, under the dictatorship of Caesar, he with- 
drew to the Tusculan villa. There he found 
time pass more easily when occupied in philo- 
sophic disputations.” 

“ And can you find friends to discuss philos- 
ophy with you?” 


“ Not all that I might wish,” he replied, more 
sharply, “but what is at least better than the 
everlasting click of a sewing-machine and the 
worrying of a child. I do not find in myself 
any fitness for domestic life ; . I am a man of 
letters.” 

“ But, father, having reached an age when you 
might discern what life you were fit for, why 
choose again a domestic state, for which you say 
vou have no aptitude ?” 


THE HEAD OF THE FAMILY, 


105 


‘‘ Does my daughter reproach me for my fol- 
lies?’’ 

“ Not at all ; I do not even say it was a folly. 
But when we accept or choose a state, that state 
having certain duties, I was questioning in my 
own mind whether we have any right to neglect 
these duties because they are unpleasing.” 

“ I discern in , you, my dear daughter, some 
trace of a philosophic mind ; I think, in course 
of time, with study, you might become a pleas- 
ing companion to me. We are so little acquaint- 
ed that perhaps I need to tell you I am one of 
those always sacrificing themselves to the desires 
or good of some one else. I see in your face and 
tone a glimpse of firmness, of logical considera- 
tion, that may hinder your becoming a sacrifice 
to others and to your own generosity — as I 
have become. You feel and deplore that I am 
unequally married; my daughter, I admit it. 
I cast myself on your sympathy, and I devote 
myself to philosophy and bear up as well as I 
can. If, in thinking of a third marriage, I had 
shown the judgment I did in my second, and 
married a woman of station and high culture 
and some small fortune — like your mother, Mar- 
gareth — I should have done more justice to my- 
self. But I saw that Harriet had set her whole 
heart on me ; I knew she would be overjoyed if 
I married her. In the weakness of my generos- 
ity, I could not refuse to make her happy, though 


106 


ROLAND’S DAUGHTER. 


evidently I purchased her happiness and grati- 
fied pride at the expense of myself. My lovely 
child, you are like your own mother. She would 
have been so proud of you ! What progress 
have you made in your studies ? I chose Miss 
Cade as a good educator ; I hope she has fulfilled 
her duty to you. She expects you back 

Possibly she would not take me back, as I 
ran away.” 

Why run away ?” 

‘‘You wrote to me that you needed me; you 
spoke of sickness : I imagined you dying among 
strangers. As for Miss Cade, she wished to keep 
me in pawn for a year’s bill due.” 

“ Ah !” said M. Tullius Poland ; “ ah ! a year’s 
bill?” 

“Yes. There would have been three years, 
you know, only I paid for the last two years 
myself.” 

“You? You paid for the last two? Ah!” 
He looked at the ceiling. 

“By making beds, cleaning stairs, running 
errands, darning stockings, teaching the alpha- 
bet and sewing, and so on.” 

“ How it grieves my heart to hear of my lovely 
daughter — your mother’s daughter. Judge Holt’s 
granddaughter — ^in such a case 1 Few men have 
been so unfortunate as I am. Oh how often I 
think of those noble words of Cicero ! — ‘ Now, 
tossed by so great a tempest, we fly to that same 


THE HEAD OF THE FAMILY. 


107 


port from which we went out, and, broken by so 
great misfortunes, are driven into that same har- 
bor whither pleasure and preference drew us in 
our earliest years. O philosophy, leader of life, 
nurse of virtue, chastiser of vices, what would 
we be without thee V If I had known of your 
arduous situation, it would have increased my 
troubles. My dear, you will think me philo- 
sophic in speech and foolish in act when you 
consider this last marriage, but Harriet — poor 
soul !— does as well as she can. She feels that 
she is not worthy of me, and she tries to make 
amends. Yes, it was the ineradicable sympathy 
and generosity of my heart that led me to risk, 
and lose, so much.” 

This was one side of the story of the marriage ; 
Margareth painfully guessed that there might be 
another. 


CHAPTER yi. 


THE OTHER MEMBERS OF THE FAMILY. 

“ When I reflect how little I have done, 

And add to that how little I have seen, 

Then, furthermore, how little I have won 
Of joy or good, how little known or been, 

I long for other life, more full, more keen. 

And yearn to change with such as well have run.” 

H abituated, under Miss Cade’s iron rule, 
to early rising, Margareth was up in such 
season that the rooms were in order, the children 
washed and the invalid made comfortable when, 
at eight o’clock, her father came forth for his 
breakfast. He was brushed and shaven, adorned 
with a clean shirt, polished boots, and a knot in 
his tie that would have excited the envy of Beau 
Brummel. The coffee being good, the butter 
just off the ice, the bread neatly sliced and the 
eggs admirably poached, he looked at the tidy 
table with the approbative remark, 

‘‘ This is the first decent table I have seen here 
this two weeks. I wish you, however, my daugh- 
ter, a better ofiice than that of housework.” 

‘‘ I suppose,” replied Margareth, laughing, 
“that any honest work does you honor if you 
only do it well.” 

108 


THE OTHER MEMBERS OF THE FAMILY. 109 

‘‘ My dearest child, you come very near being 
a philosopher. That remark savors of the ex- 
quisite argument of Cicero — ‘ In virtutem ad 
beate vivendum ^ — wherein he shows that virtue 
is in itself sufficient for happiness. I have often 
tried to impress that on Harriet, but she does not 
seem to realize it.’’ 

Margareth, having served her father, pro- 
ceeded to wait on Persis. As she buttered a 
small slice of bread and seasoned a poached 
egg her father calmly remonstrated : 

‘‘ My dear girl, in your lack of experience you 
will spoil that child. Nothing is so unpleasing 
as gluttony. When we cater to an infant’s ap- 
petite, we encourage it to set too high an estimate 
on mere food. If a child is hungry and its ap- 
petite is normal and unpampered, it will eat 
bread; if it is not hungry, let it wait until 
Nature dictates eating. I should say that egg 
and butter at one meal were too much for a 
child.” 

“ Oh, my dear father, do you not know that 
the idea of putting little children on short com- 
mons is an exploded folly ?” queried Margareth, 
with mild audacity. ‘‘ Little children, the doc- 
tors tell us, need a great amount of food in pro- 
portion to their size ; they must eat to live and 
supply daily physical need and waste, and they 
must also eat to grow. If I had offered the 
twins that I took care of at Miss Cade’s a 


110 


ROLAND’S DAUGHTER. 


breakfast of merely one egg and some buttered 
bread, they would have shrieked so as to be 
heard over the whole house. But they were 
excellent children when they had their own 
way, and they grew finely.” 

“ How could your preceptress have been guilty 
of spoiling them ?” 

“ It is easily explained : they paid nine hun- 
dred a year.” 

Margareth had now made ready a neat little 
tray of breakfast and carried it to the invalid. 

‘‘My daughter,” observed her father as she 
retook her seat, “ I really object to your leaving 
the table during a meal ; it is not etiquette.” 

“That is true, father; I will remember to- 
morrow, and give Harriet her breakfast before 
we sit down.” 

Words cannot express the consternation of the 
sick woman as the self-reliant Margareth thus 
held her discourse with her father ; Mr. Boland’s 
consternation scarcely equaled it. 

“Speaking of to-morrow,” he said, “I must 
mention that I dine at home on Sundays ; you 
will be prepared.” 

“ That will be delightful,” said Margareth ; 
“we can then have time to talk over those five 
years when we were strangers. And, now I 
think of it, father, you will give me money for 
marketing; there is nothing of which to make 
the dinner you mention.” 


THE OTHER MEMBERS OF THE FAMILY. Ill 

More consternation. M. Tullius Eoland was 
not accustomed to being requested to provide 
dinner. However, he felt in his pocket, finally 
extracted thirty-five cents, and handed the 
amount to Margareth with the remark, 

“ I have some bills to pay, and am short of 
change.’’ 

Soon after, he put on his hat and retired from 
the field of action. 

Oh, Margareth, Margareth !” said Harriet, 
breathlessly, as the young girl came to the bed- 
side to remove the tray ; never, please — never ! 
— try that again.” 

‘‘ Try what ?” asked Margareth, in surprise. 

‘‘ Why, asking him for money for dinner. 
Oh, if you do that, he will not stay at home to 
dinner on Sundays. He only does it now be- 
cause he likes to lie in bed till eleven or twelve 
o’clock. And if he is oflP Sundays, he will get 
into trouble. I tried it once. I felt so done out, 
and I said, if he wanted his dinner at home, he 
should help me buy it. He didn’t say anything 
— he is never cross, nor rude, nor violent at the 
worst times, only a little sarcastic now and then 
— but he went out Sunday morning, and he 
stayed all day. At night they brought him 
home. His head was cut, his coat was torn, his 
clothes were bloody and dusty. Oh, I just 
vowed and vowed to myself that I never would 
ask him for anything again.” 


112 


ROLAND’S DAUGHTER, 


It is a man’s duty to provide — ” began Mar- 
gareth. 

But indeed men don’t all do tbeir duty. Oh, 
please, always get the best you can, and never 
drive him out by asking for anything.” 

Do you have a doctor ?” said Margareth, ab- 
ruptly turning the conversation. 

He only comes when we send for him. You 
see, he has not been paid. He has come now 
and then for three years, and I have not been 
able to pay him, I had so many other calls, and 
I suppose he hates to give his time and climb these 
stairs for nothing. He said what I needed was 
nourishment, a quiet mind, nursing and to lie 
still on my back. I thought I must just die 
if I needed all that. But you are giving it to 
me. I wish the doctor would come and look at 
the baby, though.” 

“ What about the baby ?” 

I’m afraid it is made wrong in its back ; it 
was that that hurt me more than the exertion 
the day I tried to dress the children. I saw the 
poor little thing’s back then, and — and I’m afraid 
it is deformed.” She began to cry. 

Stop crying at once,” said Margareth ; “ I 
do not allow my patients to cry. Don’t even 
think about the baby. I don’t believe a doctor 
could help a baby of that age ; it is too little to 
be doctored. What it needs is care, rubbing, 
bathing and sunshine.” 


THE OTHER MEMBERS OF THE FAMILY, 113 


“ Oil, but think of its being a poor helpless 
hunchback 

“ Being a hunchback won’t make it either 
poor or helpless. One of the greatest lord 
treasurers of England was a hunchback ; so 
was one of the greatest astronomers. If the 
Lord takes away from a human being in one 
way, he is very apt to give to him in another, 
and so make all even. Now, I’m going to lay 
that baby on a folded quilt right here in the sun, 
on the floor, while I go down stairs for a minute.” 

‘‘ But the light will hurt its poor little eyes.” 

‘‘ Then I’ll tie a black ribbon over them,” said 
the positive Margareth. 

When she had set the room in order and gone 
down stairs, poor Harriet, turning her faded eyes 
from the bed, thought she had a strange young 
house-mistress to deal with. The place was in 
perfect order. Persis was tied fast in a high- 
chair at a window to be sunned and aired, and 
to enliven her mind by distant views of the street, 
the opposite windows and the flitting, flirting spar- 
rows. - On the floor, for his sun-bath, the skeleton 
baby lay on a folded quilt in scant array. Poor 
Harriet did not know whether the treatment 
would kill him or cure him ; at least, it was 
uncostly. And perhaps if the child died that 
would be better than living deformed. 

Meanwhile, Margareth marched down to her 
ally Mrs. Benson, whom she found in the kitchen. 

8 


114 


ROLAND'S DAUGHTER. 


‘‘ Can you get a dinner for four people out of 
thirty-five cents V asked Margareth, bluntly, 
laying down her small change. 

That skillful housekeeper promptly sorted out 
the dimes and nickels : 

‘‘ Ten cents, a large loaf ; five cents, salad ; 
five cents, a pint of beans ; five cents, half a 
pound of pork, to bake with the beans; ten 
cents, potatoes. There you are, and a very fair 
dinner too. I’m going to market, and I’ll buy 
for you and save you the trouble.” 

“ I have a little more money, but it is my 
own,” said Margareth, “ and I must buy little 
things with it for that poor sick woman. You 
can’t tell how sorry I am for her ; she is so weak 
and miserable !” 

“ You have a large heart, my dear, and may 
the Lord bless you for it ! There’s some folks ; 
with a deal bigger bodies has no heart to speak' 
of with which fling, Mrs. Benson took up her ^ 
basket and set off for market. 

Most of the day was spent by our heroine in 
working on the gingham dresses for the washer- 
woman. Harriet had the patterns for this cus- 
tomer, and, with a few hints from her, the dress- 
making proceeded famously. Persis, a child used 
to neglect and quite unused to as good meals as 
she was now getting, played contentedly with some 
broken toys from the great magazine below. If j 
the baby had troubles, he kept them stoically to 


THE OTHER MEMBERS OF THE FAMILY. 115 

himself. Harriet at first fretted at lying in bed 
while Margareth sewed, and begged for some 
work as she lay on her back ; but finally she 
took comfort in seeing the seams fly out of the 
machine and the two children’s dresses rapidly 
approach completion. 

‘‘ You sew twice as fast as I do,” she said to 
Margareth ; ‘‘ you do everything fast. You 
don’t seem to lose a minute. Somehow, things 
for you follow their order without your stopping 
to think them out.” 

‘‘ If I limited myself to a crust or a cracker 
for a meal,” said Margareth, ‘^as you say you 
did, you would soon see me working slowly too. 
If one is freely to use nervous energy, the nerves 
must have something to live on. Now, I mean 
that we shall have dinner at one o’clock.” 

To be sure, it was a plain dinner. The ten 
cents’ worth of potatoes proved to be more than 
enough for Sunday’s dinner, so Margareth ab- 
stracted three of them, made some croquettes of 
her yesterday’s rice, and bought a pint of milk 
to eat with the potatoes. 

Rest and food were reviving Harriet, and after 
tea, when Margareth sat down in the big rock- 
ing-chair to make the buttonholes on her two 
dresses, Harriet began to talk : 

“And your father never wrote you that he 
was married ?” 

“ No, not a word. But never mind that.” 


116 


ROLAND^ S DAUGHTER. 


I’d like to tell you how it was. Did you 
know that he went to Maine?” 

Margareth shook her head. 

I don’t know why he went there. Some- 
times I think it was in self-defence, trying to 
save himself. I owned a little house in a quar- 
ter-acre lot ; my father left it to me. I went out 
sewing and took in sewing, and I lived real^well. 
I had a room I let to lodgers summers ; ours was 
a quiet village, and usually Mrs. Benson sent me 
up some nice old lady for the season. But one 
day, just on the edge of winter, your father came 
along and wanted to rent the room ; he said he 
had heard of it from a Mrs. Green that lodged 
with me once. I felt real flustered and told him 
I never let to gentlemen, but he said he wouldn’t 
make me a morsel of trouble ; and he was such 
a handsome, stylish-looking gentleman — quite 
the most elegant manners ever I saw — that with 
that and the advantage of letting the room at 
fifty cents a week, out of season, why I con- 
sented. He paid me for six weeks in advance, 
and I saw about nothing of him. He went out 
every morning, and usually came back only at 
nightfall. He had bought a dollar’s worth of 
wood, and I left his fire ready to light when I 
did up his room in the morning. Sometimes he 
lit it, sometimes he didn’t. He arranged with 
me for his washing for a trifle a week, and I 
kept all big clothes in order. Some way, I got 


THE OTHER MEMBERS OF THE FAMILY. 117 

the notion he was poor and in trouble. Once in 
a long while he dropped in to sit with me half 
an hour in the evening. So it went on till 
Christmas, nearly. Then he owed for his room 
and washing, but I did not mind that: he was 
such a handsome, pleasant-spoken gentleman ! 
And, somehow, he began to look very pale and 
to lose flesh. The fact was — though I didn’t 
know it — he wasn’t getting enough to eat. He 
was in debt at the hotel where he boarded, and 
told them he was waiting for remittances ; but 
they never came, it seemed. And so, when they 
looked black at the bill running up, he went 
without or dropped in at a farmhouse and got 
a bowl of bread and milk for a few cents ; and 
as long as the orchards were full he had plenty 
of apples. Only all that I never guessed till 
later. Finally there came a day when he did not 
leave his room ; that troubled me. I dared not 
go up and inquire, for I felt shy of that, but I 
worried dreadfully; and when Miss Briggs came 
in, in the evening, I told her. 

‘‘ ‘ Maybe he is dead,’ she said ; ‘ folks often 
die in their sleep. Or maybe he is in some 
trouble, and has killed himself; did you hear 
a shot ?’ 

'' Of course I told her ‘ No ;’ but Susan Briggs 
always was a terrible hard one to picture out dis- 
tressing things. She said, ‘ As like as not he is 
hanging by the closet door, or as like as not he 


118 


nOLAND^S DAUGHTER. 


has cut his throat and when I begged her to go 
up with me and knock, she wouldn’t for the 
world, but she said if he didn’t speak by morn- 
ing I ought to call in the neighbors. 

‘‘ I can’t tell you what I felt all night ; I felt 
as if I had killed the gentleman by my neglect. 
In the morning — I had listened several times at 
the door — I did not like to call in the neighbors 
to stare, when perhaps there was nothing very 
wrong ; so I knocked and called. At last I heard 
a moaning. The door was locked, but there was 
another door I had the key to, going through a 
closet ; so I mustered up courage and went in by 
that. He was in bed, looking dreadful sick. He 
said he had been sick since he came in, the second 
night before. He seemed very faint and cold. 
I felt as if it was nourishment he needed. I lit 
the fire, let the sun in the room, went down and 
brought right up a cup of warm coffee. I had 
to hold his head and give him the first spoonsful, 
then he took the cup and drank. I went down 
and made a good slice of buttered toast and an- 
other cup of coffee, and while he took that I 
tidied the room, and then got him hot water and his 
brushes. After that I went over to Mrs. Wilkes, 
a real good old lady, and told her my lodger was 
very sick and asked her to come sit by him a bit. 
He was in bed for a week. Mrs. Wilkes was real 
good, and stayed with me most of the time. 
When he got able to come down stairs, he sat 


THE OTHER MEMBERS OF THE FAMILY. 119 

by the stove in the room where I worked — in 
that very same big chair you are in. He was 
very pleasant to all that came in, and as, of 
course, he could not walk half a mile in cold 
and snow to the hotel, just up from sickness as 
he was, he boarded with me. I got everything 
just as nice as I could for him. I felt paid by 
his talk, and he so highly educated ; and some- 
how I told him all my affairs and about my lit- 
tle house, and so on. 

Susan Briggs was one of those meddling 
people that nothing will content, and she went 
ferreting around, and at the post-office found he 
was always asking for letters that did not come 
and writing letters that never were answered, and 
how he was in debt at the hotel and hadn’t had a 
reo-ular meal for a week before he fell ill. All 
that made my heart ache, to see such a gentle- 
man in such straits, worth, as he was, ten thou- 
sand Susan Briggses. So I did my best for him, 
and he got quite well, and walked abroad each 
day looking so dignified and stylish ! and he still 
kept on boarding with me. 

“ We might have had peace only for that gos- 
siping Susan Briggs. One morning, as I was 
cooking breakfast, in she came and gave me such 
a going over as you never heard. She said the 
whole town was talking that I should have a sin- 
gle gentleman boarding with me, and that I was 
disgracing my father and mother to permit it. 


120 


ROLAND’S DAVGHTER. 


The idea of Susan Briggs saying such things to 
me, that never thought harm of or to a living 
soul ! Well, I broke out crying, and she left me 
there crying with my face in the lounge-pillow ; 
and there your father found me when he came 
down to breakfast. 

“ ‘ What is the trouble with my admirable 
hostess?’ he says, so kind. ‘If she is ill, I 
must return some of her goodness and take 
care of her. I hope it is only some passing 
indisposition.’ 

“So I just broke out: 

“ ‘ Oh, sir, won’t you please go and find board 
with Mrs. Wilkes or somebody ? for Susan Briggs 
has been talking to me and throwing up your 
boarding here, and I am a poor woman without 
any relations and with my own way to make in 
the world, and, being thirty years old, I must 
look out for my good name.’ 

“ He marched up and down the room, silent 
for quite a long while, seeming to be thinking 
and turning everything over. So at last I 
said, 

“‘Your breakfast will be spoiled, sir; I’ll 
finish getting it. And then — If you’ll please 
not be angry with me, but go find another place.’ 

“ ‘ No, Harriet,’ he said : he never had called 
me ‘ Harriet,’ and I jumped right to my feet, it 
was so strange ; ‘ there is no need for me to go 
away. You are a very good girl, and I am not 


THE OTHER ME3IBEBS OF THE FAMILY. 121 

disagreeable to you ; and if we should simply get 
married, Miss Briggs would have no more to say. 
So, if you choose to walk over to the parson’s 
with me any time to-day, we’ll settle the matter, 
and I will stay here until I return to the city 
and take you with me.’ 

You may fancy how overwhelmed I was ; I 
could hardly get the breakfast. However, after 
a while I calmed down, and I went and told 
Mrs. Wilkes and asked her to go with us to the 
minister. She advised me not to get married ; 
said I was well off as I was : I could keep my- 
self, but perhaps could not so well keep a family ; 
and the gentleman was such a stranger ! But I 
would not hear to her : he was the finest gentle- 
man by far I had ever seen ; so the end was we 
got married that day. 

'‘We lived on just as nice as could be until 
summer. I was as happy as a queen, but he got 
terribly sick of the country and began to tease 
me to sell the house and lot and go to Boston, 
where he would set up in some business or get a 
professorship. Well, I agreed ; I thought I 
ought to agree to all he said, and he made it all 
clear how he should soon have a large income 
and a fine house. It was then he told me he 
had been twice married, and that his first wife’s 
son was at boarding-school in Pennsylvania and 
his second wife’s daughter near Troy. 

“ Well, we came to Boston. I sold my house 


122 


ROLAND DAUGHTER. 


and lot and part of my furniture for a thousand 
dollars. Fortunately, it was not all paid down. 
I sent on here what furniture I have in these 
rooms. We went first to a boarding-house, a 
very quiet little place, and then I found what 
my trouble was ; for he broke out drinking and 
spent fifty dollars in the first week. When 
he came to himself, he was very sorry. I had 
consulted Mrs. Benson, and she gave me good 
advice ; and I leased these rooms for four years, 
and paid the three hundred dollars in advance, 
and put in my furniture and a year’s coal. 
When all was done, your father had five hun- 
dred of my thousand in his hands, and that is 
the last I ever saw of it. He talked about busi- 
ness, and for a while he brought home meat and 
groceries ; but after the first few months I pro- 
vided everything myself.” 

So this was the other side of the story of the 
marriage ! 

Harriet had tired herself out talking, but 
Margareth saw that the pent-up story must 
come forth before the poor creature’s heart 
would find any rest. 

The buttonholes were made; Ned carried away 
the little dresses and the clothes that were to 
he washed; Margareth put her three helpless 
charges to bed. 

‘‘ Be sure and don’t sit up for him ; he is al- 
ways late on Saturday night. Light the little 


THE OTHER MEMBERS OF THE FAMILY. 123 

lamp on the wall in his room and go to bed/’ 
said Harriet. 

Margareth went to bed, but not to sleep. 
Harriet’s story had opened the floodgates of a 
sea of sorrow upon her soul, and her heart sank 
like lead in the midst of these dark waters. 
Midnight came; soon after, heavy, stumbling 
steps up the stairs and along the hall, and the 
deep mumbling of a voice thickly pronouncing 
lofty words : “ Sunt enim omnia ista ex errorum 
orta radicibus,” and so on ; which words, Marga- 
reth, if she had rightly divined them, would 
have known to mean that ‘‘all these things 
spring from roots of errors which must be 
deeply rooted and torn up, not merely circum- 
scribed or cut off.” Her father had, then, a 
method in his madness: it was on Saturday 
night that he arranged to come home drunk, 
so as to sleep off his troubles late on Sunday 
morning ! Was there anything in all the uni- 
verse wide enough, deep enough, blessed enough, 
to afford compensation for a shame and grief 
such as this? 

Margareth was young yet, and limited in her 
experiences ; she did not yet know how far she 
might draw for consolation on the great heart of 
God. She sat up in bed, the moonlight falling 
whitely over her shoulders and her fair hair. 
She was, then, the fourth in the line of women 
on whom the burden of her father’s iniquities 


124 


ROLAND'S DAUGHTER. 


had been laid ? Perhaps she was the fifth ; per- 
haps his mother, for whom she herself was named, 
had gone down with sorrow to the grave. There 
had been her father’s first wife, of whom Marga- 
reth knew little except that, distrust being in 
her soul, she had left her child and his little 
fortune to a stranger’s guardianship. Then 
there had come her own mother, dead — no 
doubt, heartbroken — in her early prime, and 
less wise about her child and her small property. 
Then here was this poor Harriet, too weak to 
bear her burdens and dropping them on Marga- 
reth. But there drifted into the girl’s soul some 
good words from the best of books, and, strange- 
ly composed, she lay down and slept until the 
sun was high. 

The day began with Sabbath calm. The 
swallows chirped and fluttered as on other 
days ; the chorus of the bells broke over the 
city. Harriet had slept well and was tranquil- 
ized. The children were dressed, the work was 
done ; below, the dinner cooked itself beside 
Mrs. Benson’s culinary exploits ; finally, the 
room was shaded, and Margareth sat down 
with Persis on her knee. It was proper to 
instruct Persis : 

‘‘ Persis, who made you ?” 

‘‘ Nonebody — no,” said Persis, tranquilly. 

Oh, think again. Come, who lives up in the 
sky ?” 


THE OTHER MEMBERS OF THE FAMILY. 125 

‘'Nonebody — no. They’d fall/’ said Persis, 
with assurance. 

‘‘ What ! Persis does not know who made 
her 2” 

Persis perceived that she should accord some- 
body the honor : 

“ Mamma made my dess,” she observed, tenta- 
tively. 

But, Persis, to whom do you say your 
prayers ?” 

‘‘ Why, no ! Persis don’t say prayers. Lady.” 
‘‘ Lady,” and nothing else, would Persis call her 
half sister. 

‘‘ It is true you have gone to bed asleep these 
two nights,” said Margareth, but hereafter you 
will go earlier, and say your prayers.” 

“ I thought she was too little to learn any- 
thing,” suggested Harriet, apologetically ; and 
then I don’t know much myself, and never could 
teach : I have no gifts that way.” 

She is not too young,” said Margareth. It 
seems to me that the idea of God should be the 
first idea of the child’s mind, and it should know 
the name of God as soon as it knows the name 
of its mother. The idea of God is not foreign ; 
it is born in all with their soul. We fashion the 
idea to speech and name, and teach the child due 
love and fear and gratitude. — Persis, I shall tell 
you a story. Now, listen : God made you ; God 
lives in the sky. He made everything — mamma, 


126 


ROLAND^S DAUGHTER. 


and Persis, and tlie little birds, and the horses, 
and the baby — 

And the house, and my doll ?” interposed 
Persis. 

Margareth was judiciously silent : she had said 
“ everything.’’ At present she would not seem 
to limit God’s power by limiting his creative 
works. She then proceeded to tell the story of 
the garden of Eden and the first man. Persis 
listened with rapture to the description of the 
garden-home with grass, and trees, and flowers, 
and birds — ” 

‘‘ And apples ?” said Persis. 

‘‘ Yes, and apples.” 

“ And kittens ?” urged Persis. 

‘‘ Yes. Nice little furry kittens. And little 
dogs.” 

“Yes,” chimed Persis, in ecstatic delight; 
“ white dogs wis little curly tails, and no bark 
in ’em.” 

It was an enchanting story ; Persis held her 
breath with joy. When it was finished, she sat 
meditating long ; then, with a deep sigh, she put 
her mite of a finger on the dimple in Marga- 
reth’s chin and said ardently, 

“ Lady, tell it adain.” 

Margareth repeated the history, but this time, 
possibly, Satan and his temptations took the 
place of hero, as in the Paradise Lost. At all 
events, Persis was much impressed by Satan. 


THE OTHER MEMBERS OF THE FAMILY. 127 

After considering upon the tale a long while 
in silence, she observed, 

Notty old Satan ! God put him out.” 

“ What did Satan do that was naughty ?” 
asked Margareth, curiously. 

Persis mused ; then — 

“ He didn’t want to go to bed ?” 

No, not that,” said Margareth, concealing a 
smile. 

After more consideration of the problem, ‘‘ I 
know !” cried Persis, triumphantly : ‘‘ he kwied 
for butter on he bread.” 

It was a simple little speech, but there rushed 
into Margareth’s mind the realization that this 
little child knew nothing of sin except those 
small failings of her own which she had been 
told were “ bad.” She was a pale, quiet, under- 
fed morsel, and one of her sins had been to 
‘‘ kwie ” for butter on her bread. The thought 
brought before Margareth a whole family his- 
tory of repression, poverty, discouragement, 
wrong-doing. In those few words the woes of 
the past week and the watchful sorrows of the 
past night seemed to culminate for her. She 
placed Persis on the floor and fled to her little 
room, and remained there for half an hour. 
When she returned, sounds of some one stir- 
ring came from her father’s room. 

“ He always wants a cup of strong cofiee when 
he comes out — only that,” hinted Harriet. 


128 


ROLAND^S DAUGHTER. 


Margareth lit the oil stove, and had just made 
ready the coffee when Professor M. Tullius Ro- 
land came from the inner room and with a groan 
dropped into the great chair. He was dressed 
with his usual nicety, but his hands were trem- 
ulous, his wrinkles were deepened. Altogether, 
M. Tullius seemed much the worse for wear. 
The coffee revived him ; he looked approvingly 
at his daughter. 

Though Margareth could not go to church, 
she had celebrated Sunday by putting on her 
best, a blue lawn, a gift from the father of the 
twins on their behalf. 

“Candiduli dentes, venusti oculi, color sua- 
vis,” said he. 

‘‘ Which I do not understand,” said Marga- 
reth, but I am sure it is something complimen- 
tary.” 

“ It means ‘ snowy teeth, beautiful eyes, fresh 
color,’ ” said her father. How much I am to 
blame for allowing that inhuman schoolmistress 
to teach you the trifling French tongue rather 
than the noble Latin !” 

Not to blame, father, for she taught me 
French well, but Latin she would have taught 
very poorly.” 

Dear me !” said Harriet. “ Why, do you 
know French?” 

“Of course,” said Margareth, who supposed 
that tongue a common heritage. 


THE OTHER MEMBERS OF THE FAMILY. 129 

“ How much you two know !” cried Harriet, 
admiringly. ‘^And I don’t know anything !” 

“ My friend,” said M. Tullius, graciously, 
that is your misfortune, not your fault.” 

However, the chance remark was not fruitless. 
Harriet, in telling Margareth’s praises to Mrs. 
Benson, enlarged on the French. Mrs. Benson 
discoursed thereof to the butcher’s wife. The 
butcher’s wife had a pair of daughters of whom 
she designed to make ladies,” and she requested 
Margareth to receive them for daily lessons. 
The price was not much, but the teaching went 
on with some hand-sewing, and was a help. As 
for the sewing by machine and the children’s 
dressmaking, that progressed well, and Harriet, 
lying back on her pillows, was allowed entire 
rest and nourished on chocolate, eggs and soup 
until she saw some prospect of restoration. 

Margareth wrote to Mrs. Villeroy, enclosing 
her father’s letter as explanation of her sudden 
and secret departure. She enclosed also a note 
to Hope Cornell. 

I found my father married,” she said in her 
letter to Mrs. Villeroy ; “ I found a sick wife and 
two young children. The eldest is a cunning, del- 
icate little thing. I mean to take her to church 
with me as soon as I can get her properly dressed 
to go. I’m afraid something is wrong with the 
poor baby. I never studied much physiology, 
but it does not seem to me that a baby should 

9 


130 


ROLAND^ S DAUGHTER. 


have a loop in its back-bone. I’m not sorry I 
came ; there is no one to take care of them but 
me. I will write you again, if I have something 
good to write ; but I think people had better be 
silent if they have only troubles to tell of. Do 
not let any one know what I have told you in \ 
this letter.” 

Mrs. Villeroy wrote, and also sent a package 
with two little cambric dresses, stockings to 
match and a lace-and-mull cap, which she asked 
Margareth to accept for church- wear for Persis. 
Margareth replied with thanks ; then she wrote 
two letters far apart, and then Mrs. Villeroy did 
not hear from her for years. 

One part of Mrs. Villeroy ’s letter was this : 

‘‘I cannot believe that, with your natural 
abilities, God intends to keep you always in 
the position in which you now find yourself. 
You should strive to fit yourself for any sta- 
tion in life to which you may be called. Your 
education is well begun ; you must carry it on 
by careful reading. Never pass a day without 
an hour for reading — more, if you can. Head 
history, biography and natural science, also trav- 
els, a little good poetry and fiction. There are 
large free libraries in Boston, and you should 
have your father bring you such books as I 
have suggested. Also you will hear of free 
lectures, and the Christian associations offer 
many privileges in the line of lectures and 


THE OTHER MEMBERS OF THE FAMILY. 131 

I classes. In fine, embrace all opportunities for 
self-improvement. Make such opportunities. 
Let not better days, when they come — as, in 
the good providence of God, I believe they will — 
find you unprepared or with lost time to lament. 

1 Cultivate yourself ; improve yourself.” 

; Margareth showed this part of the letter to 
her father, and it greatly pleased him. It roused 
! his interest alike in his daughter and in educa- 
' tion, and he did not fail to select the books for 
Margareth from the library, and to select them 
^'judiciously. 

Margareth had been home over two weeks 
when a hurried, heavy step in the hall and a 
familiar voice heralded the arrival of Mrs. 
Quincey. 

j “ Oh, my dear,” she cried, settling herself in 
the big chair and lifting Persis to her knee, 
^ “ how glad I am to see you, and much more to 
hear about you from Mrs. Benson ! Oh, she told 
, me all that you had been doing. When I left 
you that day, I knew it was a time of trying, 
and I concluded to stop away until it had had 
time to turn out one way or the other. You 
have done well, my dear, and glad I am of it. 

; ; When I tell Thomas Henry of it when I go 
home, he’ll be glad too. Oh, you are laughing. 
Thomas Henry is well ; he knew me as soon as 
J he saw me, and overjoyed he was. I often tell him 
he has too sensitive a nature for his own good. 

1 


132 


ROLAND^ S DAUGHTER. 


Yes, my dear, you have done your duty nobly. 
Well is it to be weighed in God’s balances and 
not to be found wanting.” 

Margareth flushed. She had never mentioned 
that treasured card, but was it so that her life was 
fulfllling her mother’s thought ? 

And how do you And yourself, ma’am ?” Mrs. 
Quincey asked Harriet. 

‘‘ Oh, I’m much better, I’m getting such good 
care. But I know it is a terrible trouble for her, 
and why does she have to bear it ?” 

Why, indeed ?” was echoed by Mrs. Quincey. 
‘‘ There’s a ‘ why ’ of divine Providence back of 
all the affairs of this life. — My dear,” to Mar- 
gareth, did you ever pray to grow in grace ?” 

‘‘Why, yes,” answered Margareth, flushing. 
“ Last New Year’s, Mr. Villeroy preached a 
sermon which I liked very much. He said it 
was a good plan for God’s children to ask New 
Year’s gifts of their Father in heaven, and he 
said the highest use and dower of the New Year 
could and should be growing in grace ; and he 
advised us all especially to ask God to help us 
to grow in grace this year, and I did.” 

“ Well,” said Mrs. Quincey, “ I don’t see but 
that explains it, so far as you are concerned. 
Now I’ll tell you my experience. Once I par- 
ticularly requested the Lord that I might grow 
in grace during a year. Well, such a year I 
never saw before or since in all my life — trou- 


THE OTHER MEMBERS OF THE FAMILY. 133 

bles, disappointments, losses, vexations, evils of 
no end, till I fairly felt, ‘After that, the 
deluge !’ ’’ 

“ And did you stop praying to grow in grace 
asked Margareth. 

“No. I was frightened at my troubles, and I 
felt tempted to say, ‘ Hold, Lord ! I can’t grow 
in grace at this rate but I considered that growth 
in grace was really worth all it cost, and well to 
have at any price ; so I kept straight on. But 
when I got through that year, I warrant you I 
felt as if I had been to the wars or crusades and 
come back scarred and tattered like a veteran.” 

“ I cannot at all understand what you two are 
talking about,” said Harriet, from her pillows. 

Mrs. Quincey accepted the remark as a hint to 
make conversation more generally intelligible. 

“ This is a sweet little girl,” she said, “ but she 
looks as if she needed country air and a good roll 
on the grass.” 

“ She hardly knows what grass is,” said her 
mother. “ I did take her to the Common a few 
times, but I could not spare the hours from my 
work. She is delicate. I know she would love 
the country ; flowers are the only things she cries 
for.” 

“ When I come back, in two weeks,” said Mrs. 
Quincey, “ I’ll take her with me and keep her a 
month ; Thomas Henry really needs a playmate. 
When I come. I’ll bring you some of my straw- 


134 


BOLAND'S DAUGHTER. 


berries. — Now, Margareth, in this basket are 
some of my own flowers, eggs, lettuce, radishes 
and a young chicken to fry. Just take them 
out. — And do you, ma^am, pick yourself up, so 
that by August I can take you out to my place 
to stay a fortnight with your baby. It is not 
much I can do with my little means, but I can 
open my house to those that will be benefited by 
country air.” 

Nothing that any one could have done would 
have been a greater charity. Persis thrived well 
in her country visit, and Harriet’s two weeks 
were three and sent her home in August nearly 
well, while Margareth could scarcely estimate 
the help that came in the baskets of good things 
from Mrs. Quincey’s little place.” 


CHAPTER VII. 


A HALF BROTHER, 

Happier he, the peasant, far 
From the pangs of passion free, 

That breathes the keen yet wholesome air 
Of rugged penury.” 



HILE Harriet was enjoying her visit in the 


^ * country, M. Tullius Holand came home for 
his dinners — not because he feared that his daugh- 
ter would be lonely, but at that juncture his 
finances were even lower than usual, and his 
credit at the restaurants was quite exhausted. 
The professor, Margareth and Persis were ac- 
cordingly at dinner, the room door being open 
on account of the heat, when a burly young 
fellow with a strong general likeness to M. 
Tullius appeared on the threshold. Margareth 
looked at him blankly, M. Tullius with some 
little struggling recognition in his eyes. 

Why, hullo, governor said the stranger. 
“ It is not a very devoted parent that don’t know 
his own son when he sees him.” 

‘^Positively, it is Rufus! My son, how are 
you ?” said M. Tullius, springing up and shak- 
ing hands with effusion. 


136 


ROLAND'S DAUGHTER. 


‘‘All right, what of me isn’t melted. You 
didn’t expect to see me, sir, and I — Really, I 
didn’t expect to find you in just these quarters. 
You lived in swell style when I was at home as 
a little bit of a shaver, if my memory serves me 
truly.” 

“ I have been very unfortunate,” sighed Ro- 
land. “Sit down, Rufus; sit down and share 
my humble meal. It is not what you have had 
at your guardian’s, and that we are so nearly 
strangers is not to be wondered at, when a stran- 
ger instead of a father is left guardian of the 
person and property of an only son. I’m not 
to blame, Rufus.” 

“ Nor am I for what I had no hand in doing,” 
replied Rufus. “ In fact, I hadn’t as much hand 
as you, for I understand you signed the instru- 
ment transferring me, in consideration of five 
thousand dollars.” 

“ I yielded to your mother’s wishes.” 

“That was right, certainly. Who is this? 
Surely not — ” 

“ This is your half sister Margareth.” 

“ Bless us, Margareth ! Is this you ? How 
you have grown ! I remember I used to be 
right fond of you when you were seven and I 
was eleven. You were a real accommodating 
little tot, and pretty also. Yes, I liked you, 
and your mother too — I did, upon my word.” 

This reference to her mother won Margareth. 


A JIALF BROTHER. 


137 


She held out her hand to the almost forgotten 
brother, and made ready a place at the table. 

Who’s this?” demanded E-ufus, looking at 
Persis. ‘‘ Eather a peaked specimen, seems to 
me.” 

‘‘ That is our little half sister,” said Marga- 
reth. 

“ Oh ! I remember the governor did me the 
honor to mention that he was married. Where 
is the lady in question ? I hope she is more 
presentable than her infant?” 

M. Tullius and Margareth preserved a discreet 
silence. 

‘‘ I am indebted to whatever circumstance 
sends you to visit me,” said M. Tullius as he 
filled his son’s plate. 

‘^The circumstance is a more than usually 
violent falling out with my guardian, so I just 
squarely let him know that I would not go 
through college and meant to get out of leading- 
strings.” 

You are quite wrong about the college; 
every man should desire a liberal education. 
Was that what you quarreled about?” 

No, not precisely. The immediate cause of 
contention lay in cigars and a champagne supper 
or two, with a modicum of beer and billiards. I 
concluded that you, sir, would not be quite so 
strait-laced. I remembered that I had been 
taken from home and sent to school to remove 


138 


ROLAND'S DAUGHTER. 


me from your supposed pernicious example, but, 
not being afraid of it, I have come back. How- 
ever, it was a great mistake to send me off to a 
boarding-school at eleven ; it did me more harm 
than good. Margareth’s mother would have an- 
tidoted any damage which you might have done 
to my youthful mind and morals, sir.” 

“And have you made any terms with your 
guardian ?” 

“ The terms are that he is to pay the munifi- 
cent sum of twenty-five dollars a month for my 
board and washing; he will also settle some 
tailors^ bills if they are reasonable. Otherwise, 
if any tailor allows a minor like myself to run 
up an unreasonable bill, he must look out for 
himself; I’m not responsible.” 

This remark struck Margareth very painfully ; 
it was the very line of argument which she had 
used with Miss Cade. She wondered if it was 
difference in circumstances that made the state- 
ment seem different, or whether the whole prin- 
ciple were wrong. 

Rufus continued : 

“He also advised me, as I declined further 
studies, to get into some business as quickly as 
possible.” 

“ He was quite right,” said Margareth. 

“Very right indeed; I hope you’ll do so,” 
said his father. 

After dinner Rufus watched Margareth closely 


A HALF BROTHER. 


139 


as she cleared away the dishes and then, putting 
on her white apron, sat down to sew. 

‘‘Will you come out with me?” asked his 
father. 

“ Excuse me ; I think I had better renew my 
acquaintance with my sister.” 

When they were alone, Kufus placed a stool 
before Margareth and jerked at her sewing : 

“ See here ! Do you do all this housework ? 
Things don’t look very flourishing here. What 
are you sewing on this cotton gown for ?” 

“ I do the housework ; and do not despise 
this cotton gown and others; for by making them 
I get bread and butter to put on the table.” 

“ Zounds ! And this other wife ? What is 
she like?” 

“She is a plain, simple, harmless creature. 
She has been very ill, and is now ofi* in the 
country — getting better, I hope.” 

“ No money, then, I fancy ?” 

“ She had a thousand dollars ; it is gone.” 

“ I suppose so. Your mother left you a capi- 
tal to give you four hundred a year, Margareth, 
but you don’t seem to be getting much good of 
it. It was entirely in his hands ; is that gone 
too?” 

“ I have had no use of it since I was twelve. 
For one year since then I am in debt for my 
schooling; for the other two I paid in house- 
work, sewing, teaching. Now, here, I am doing 


140 


ROLAND^S DAUGHTER. 


housework, sewing, teaching, to help on myself 
and others. Yet I am not so very badly off. 
No one interferes with me ; I like the children, 
and I take an hour or two every day to study, 
and have all the books I can use in that time. 
I keep up heart, for some day there may be 
better things.’’ 

Father resents not having been my guardian, 
but it was luck for me. I have been maintained 
so far, and shall be till I am twenty-one, and 
then I’ll have a little sum in hand. If father 
had had the care of my property, he would have 
had me thrown on my own exertions before I 
was fifteen. He devastates everything.” 

‘‘ So far as the result is concerned,” said Mar- 
gareth, ‘‘ I do not know that you would be better 
off for being allowed the privilege of devastating 
your property yourself. And if at fifteen you 
had been forced to earn your own way, perhaps 
there would have been no complaints of cigars 
and champagne suppers. Suppose you find 
business, and work with all your might? I 
shall be very proud of you. You must like 
something, even if you do not like books.” 

‘‘See here! What had I better do — about 
living, you know? I fancied that father had 
made another good match, as he had twice be- 
fore, and was living in a house, not in a third 
story over a toy-shop.” 

“I hope you will stay here. You will not 


A HALF BROTHER. 


141 


find Harriet unpleasant, and father is always 
polite ; and you will really be better off. If you 
will pay me that twenty-five dollars a month for 
board, I will see that you have a comfortable 
room on this floor — it will be small, but, you see, 
the price is low — and I will give you as good 
meals as I can, and keep your clothes in order. 
And then you will feel that you are helping us 
along. It really will be a help, I assure you, 
especially to get it in full every month, so that 
I can buy coal and flour, and such things.’’ 

‘‘ The guardian won’t send it through me, you 
bet ; he’d fear I’d spend it. He will send it by 
cheque each month, and we can get him to make 
it out to this ^ Harriet,’ as you call her, if she 
will hand it over to you. I don’t much care 
where I stay ; I couldn’t get much style for 
twenty-five dollars a month, and you’ll be some 
company for me.” 

‘‘ And you won’t dislike Harriet and the chil- 
dren ? There is another child — a baby. He is 
feeble, and he has a crooked back.” 

Poor little chap !” said Rufus, heartily. 

It was the second touch of kindly sympathy 
in him, and it pleased Margareth. She stopped 
her work long enough to give him an approba- 
tive pat. 

It seems to me,” said Margareth, that you 
have as good a chance in life as any young man 
could want. Your board and clothes will be 


142 


ROLAND’S DAUGHTER. 


provided for two years ; that will enable you to 
take a small salary in some business you like, 
and work up. At the end of two years you will 
have a little capital to invest. I should think 
you could save nearly all of whatever you earn 
to add to the capital.” 

‘‘ Tut ! It wouldn’t be enough to be of any 
account. Say three hundred laid up : what is 
that?” 

“ Not so much in itself, but worth more than 
as many thousand,” said the wise Margareth, 
‘‘ in the habits of economy and self-restraint it 
represents.” 

‘‘ The idea of a pretty, dimpled, yellow-headed 
girl talking so sagely as that ! What nonsense !” 

‘‘ You must remember that for more than two 
years ‘ the girl ’ has been cast on her own resources, 
and that brings gravity and wisdom and ages one. 
At fifteen, I, who have earned my way, feel older 
than you, who at nineteen have never earned a 
dollar. With the habit of self-support, I may 
he in money-matters much safer than you are. 
Of course it was wise and right for your mother 
to try to secure to you what little property she 
had, and yet it seems to me dangerous to settle 
on a boy such an income as will until he is twen- 
ty-one entirely obviate the need of labor. By 
twenty-one our habits are usually fixed, and the 
boy, not forced to industry, may have gained the 
habit of idleness and wastefulness. If he is sure 


A HALF BROTHER. 


143 


to be a student, to go to college, to work hard at 
his books, then it is well for him to have an in- 
come that will enable him to do so.” 

“ Well, Miss Wisdom,” said Rufus, laughing, 
^‘how would you have fixed it so that in my 
youth I should not have become a bloated and 
indolent millionaire ?” 

“ I should have arranged for you to be sent to 
school until you were fifteen; and if then you 
did not show the tastes of a reasonable student 
and desire a collegiate education, I should have 
arranged that you were to be put to work at 
some trade or business and made to depend on 
it for a living outside of extraordinary expenses. 
And if in the six years until you were twenty- 
one you had shown energy, industry, economy, 
you should then have had your capital to in- 
vest in your business ; if not, you should have 
gotten only your interest until you were thirty, 
to see if you would have learned prudence and 
have settled down by that time.” 

By that time the guardian of your selection 
would have gobbled up the entire capital for 
himself You can^t trust men.” 

If I could not trust the individual, I would 
trust a trust company.” 

‘‘Gracious, girl! you talk as if you were 
forty !” 

“I read the newspapers,” said Margareth, 
“and I think about what I read.” 


144 


ROLAND^S DAUGHTER. 


I don’t — only to see if any horses have made 
extra time.” 

But now tell me : what business do you pre- 
• fer?” 

don’t prefer any. What I prefer is to 
hunt and fish and row and ride a bicycle. I 
think my guardian should have let me keep a 
boat on the river and have bought me a first- 
class bicycle. He wouldn’t do it.” 

‘‘Perhaps he knew that your income would 
not cover such outlay, and did not wish to be 
accused in the end of devastating or ‘ gobbling 
up’ your capital.” 

“ He knew very well that if he kept on good 
terms with me, and let me have what I wanted, 
I should never have made any fuss when we 
came to settlement.” 

“ I strongly suspect that your guardian is an 
honest man,” said Margareth, quietly. “ How- 
ever, if you greatly desire a bicycle, why cannot 
you save up your wages as soon as you get a place, 
and buy one ? If you save three dollars a week, 
you can get one in six months ; and that way of 
using the money would be better than frittering 
it away weekly on shows and plays and worse 
nonsense. It is better to learn to save for almost 
any end than not to save at all, and I suppose a 
bicycle well taken care of is always available 
property.” 

“ Upon my word, girl, you talk as wisely as 


A HALF BROTHER. 


145 


some of those ancient sages — whose names I have, 
unhappily, forgotten.’’ 

“ Try Solon or Socrates,” suggested Margareth, 
‘‘ or Plato.” 

Thank you ! Solon : that is quite sufficient.” 

And if you get the bicycle, I hope I shall 
not see you wheeling around on it on Sundays, 
as so many young men do.” 

You’d better believe, if I had one, I’d wheel 
nine days in the week if there were so many. 
But the idea of my saving and keeping one end 
in view for six months ! The very notion is ab- 
surd. I couldn’t do it.” 

Margareth’s heart grew more and more heavy. 
This youth seemed to have absolutely no strength 
in his character, nothing solid of morals or re- 
ligious purpose or vigorous intending, upon 
which to build anything for refuge and shelter 
in his life. Another Beuben, unstable as water. 

‘^Bufus, I must say something to you that 
it hurts my feelings to say.” 

“ Say right along ; don’t hesitate. I’m amiable ; 
I can stand anything.” 

“ It hurts me — not on your account, but on 
father’s.” 

Don’t be scrupulous ; he’s not here, and I’ll 
not tell him.” 

‘‘ The places where he spends his time are not 
proper places for you to be in ; the ways in which 
he spends his money — the little he gets — are not 
10 


146 


ROLAND’S DAUGHTER. 


ways which should claim any man’s money. 
Our father has wrecked and ruined his life. 
You said at dinner that he used to live in style 
when you were at home. I remember that time. 
We had a nice house and two servants and a 
little phaeton and pony, and all the people who 
came to see us were nice people ; and he was a 
professor in a college, and people looked up to 
him. Now he picks up here and there money 
for his clothes and dinners, except what he gets 
on credit. He lives in this shabby third story, 
and his wife and daughter support his home. 
You know what has done it, Rufus — ^the places 
and the things I hinted at, the wine, the beer, 
the brandy, the cards, pool, billiards, in the sa- 
loons. Once he would not have stooped to such 
places, but by the wine and brandy at home and 
in places of so-called fashion he fell, until he 
lost first one professorship, and then another; 
and then he could not get such places as he 
wanted, and he has gone on down to this. Don’t 
go that way, Rufus. You are young ; you have 
your life to make : don’t begin wrong by getting 
these habits and by using these indulgences. 
Father tries to find in them a way of forgetting 
what he was and what he lost ; you have noth- 
ing to forget. Keep out of all these snares if 
you want something to hope for.” 

‘‘ You ought to have been a boy,” cried Rufus. 
“ What a straightforward, up-and-down, ener- 


A HALF BROTHER. 


147 


getic, self-restrained fellow you would have 
made ! — -just the very beau-ideal of my guardian. 
President of the United States, no doubt, in 
course of time.” 

“ I don’t see why common sense, energy and 
self-restraint are supposed to be the peculiar in- 
heritance of men,” said Margareth. “Women 
need them just as much, and put such qualities 
to as good use as ever men do. Now, if I had 
the mapping out of your life, this is what you 
would do : you would to-morrow set yourself to 
hunt some business such as you thought would 
interest you and hold your attention ; you would 
show the greatest energy and industry at once, 
and so become speedily valuable ; you would in 
the evenings go to lectures or libraries or out 
walking with me ; you would save your money ; 
you would go regularly to church, to Bible class 
on Sabbath morning, and to weekly prayer-meet- 
ing; when you were twenty-one, having some 
business knowledge, good habits and fixed prin- 
ciples, you would invest your little fortune in some 
paying business at which you would work zeal- 
ously; in time you would marry, set up your 
own home, be a useful citizen and good man, 
and flourish more and more from year to year.” 

“ That is a promising picture, but there is a 
deal of hard work in it. And what is the use 
of all that religion?” 

“ In the first place, it has practical, financial 


148 


BOLAND’S DAUGHTER. 


use, for God says, ‘ Them that honor me I will 
honor second, it has use in that there is no 
firm foundation of morals except in religion ; 
third, it has highest use in that it takes hold 
on immortal life and fits us for happiness in 
that eternity on which we may at any instant 
enter.’’ 

Rufus shook his head : 

‘‘You are a queer girl — mighty old in your 
notions — and also you are a very pretty girl ; 
and, come to look closely at you, I think you are 
the kind of girl one could tie to without any fear 
of your going back on him. I remember your 
mother had just such crotchets. She was a very 
good woman, and I liked her. I remember that- 
I felt pretty bad when I heard she was dead. 
She used to write me letters and send me little 
presents. Now, Margareth, I’ll step out and 
have my baggage sent here, if you think you 
can make me comfortable. I’d better do that 
while I have cash in hand, for no doubt be- 
fore I’m twenty-four hours older the governor 
will want to borrow the few dollars I have.” 

“ You needn’t lend it — all,” said Margareth, 
anxious for both. 

“ You see, it has always been one trouble with 
me that I never could say a good square No to 
anybody. Perhaps you can.” 

“Yes, I can, if it is necessary,” answered his 
sister. 


A HALF BROTHER. 


149 


‘‘Then by all means bring the crisp little 
monosyllable out forcibly if any one comes 
courting you, for I plainly see that you are the 
one member of this household destined to hold 
all the rest together. That is the duty of the 
house-band, or husband, but in these degenerate 
days he doesn’t always do it.” 

“ If you are in funds,” said Margareth, “ you 
had better subscribe for a month to the best ad- 
yertising paper, so that you can look up places 
of business. If you take one to look at early, 
you can see the others later in the day at some 
of the free reading-rooms.” 

“ What a business-head it is !” cried Kufus, 
admiringly, as he went off. 

Margareth applied to Mrs. Benson for another 
room, made terms for it, and, aided by the 
younger of the Benson daughters, began to 
set it in order. 

Bufus came back with his things. Evidently, 
he did not know how to save his money. His 
clothes were needlessly nice and numerous; he 
had more knickknacks than a properly-trained 
girl would need ; he brought in peaches, beef- 
steak and tomatoes, which he said must be had 
for supper, and he showed his kindness of heart 
by tossing Persis an orange and a stick of candy. 
For the next week he spent his time in seeing all 
the sights in Boston, making trips on the river 
and the railroad, until, with these measures and 


150 


ROLAND'S DAUGHTER. 


a loan to his father, he had exhausted his ready 
money. After that he set himself to look for a 
clerkship, and, having tasteful dress, good man- 
ners and good appearance, he at last secured a 
position at four dollars a week in a dry-goods 
store. His evenings he spent in running around 
here and there until a late hour ; he had to be 
called, shaken and nearly dragged out of bed by 
Margareth in the morning to get to his duties 
in time. Sundays he followed his father’s exam- 
ple in lying in bed until nearly noon ; in the 
afternoon he took a walk or a trip on the bay. 
Margareth was utterly unable to correct any of 
these practices ; he was good-natured in speech, 
but obstinate beyond description in self-indul- 
gence. 

When Harriet came home, she was as much 
in awe of Rufus as of her other relations by 
marriage. It is true he had not that scholar- 
ship which she supposed to abide in M. Tullius 
and in Margareth, but then he was “ such a 
stylish young man !” She was in great terror 
lest the children should trouble him, and lest 
things should not be good enough to please 
him. The monthly board-cheques coming to 
her so overwhelmed her that she would at 
once have presented them to him to cash and 
keep had not Margareth insisted that they 
should be given to her, that they two were 
unable to support Rufus unassisted, and that 


A HALF BROTHER. 


151 


it was greatly for his good that he should pay 
his board. 

In fact/’ said Margareth, I am willing to 
stay here and help you so long as you exercise 
common sense; but if you give those cheques 
to Rufus or father to help ruin himself with, 
I’m going away. The first cheque you hand to 
either of them — ^that ends my being here.” This 
vigorous threat secured her the prompt posses- 
sion of the guardian’s monthly letters, delivered 
to her sealed. 

As for Rufus, his views of his second step- 
mother were clearly stated to Margareth as soon 
as Harriet came home : 

Seems to me the governor got pretty low 
down when he chose his last wife. Your moth- 
er, Margareth, was a lady, and this poor body 
has neither birth, brains nor beauty to recom- 
mend her.” 

‘‘At least, she gave him her all,” said Marga- 
reth, tartly. 

But what headway could Margareth make 
against the tide of folly of these two men ? On 
the one hand were the reckless tastes and incli- 
nations of Rufus ; on the other was the disastrous 
example of his father. When Rufus had cash 
in hand, his father would invite him to go to a 
restaurant for dinner with ale or wine and let 
Rufus pay the bill, or they would go off in great 
amity for an evening at billiards. Did M. Tul- 


152 


BOLAND DAUGHTER, 


lius Roland feel inspired to give his son moral 
lessons, he couched them thus : 

So long as you have a guardian, Rufus, don^t 
fall out with him. Don’t run up bills to anger 
him ; he may pay them out of your property. 
In a couple of years you will have your money, 
and you can use it as you will.” 

Margareth sometimes painfully felt that her 
father kept on good terms with his eldest with 
an eye to sharing his capital when it fell into the 
son’s hands. This notion aroused her to more 
pity and anxiety for her half brother, and to 
warmer desires to defend him from himself and 
his father. 

The moral lessons of M. Tullius were as per- 
nicious as was his immoral example. For in- 
stance, at the supper-table, his cheeks purpled, 
his eyes bloodshot, his voice thick with drinking, 
he must needs fix his flickering gaze vaguely in 
the direction of his son and discourse in favor of 
temperance : 

‘‘ Temperance the Stoics called the fountain 
of all virtues. It was moderation in all things. 
Intemperance was excess in anything. I wish 
you understood Latin, so that I could give you 
the noble original — ‘ Omnium autem perturbatio- 
nem ’ — but I must translate : ‘ Intemperance is 
the fountain of all diseases of the mind, because 
intemperance is a defection from all conscience 
and right reason, and so averse to the authority 


A HALF BROTHER. 


153 


of judgment that the appetites are willing in no 
manner to be restrained or ruled. But temper- 
ance calms appetites and secures that they obey 
sound reason, and a proper balance of mind is 
preserved. Intemperance, hostile to this, in- 
flames all the tenor of the mind.’ Bufus, why 
did not you study Latin?” 

‘‘ I did,” said Bufus, “ as far as into the be- 
ginning of the Reader. I remember I read a 
fable about a crab trying to teach his son — to 
walk straight.” 


CHAPTEE VIII. 


THE MODERN JOAN. 

‘ A maiden-knight, to me was given 
Such hope I knew not fear.” 

A utumn saw Harriet restored to health. 

Sustained by the strong common sense and 
vigorous help of Margareth, the poor woman 
took a new lease of life ; the burden resting on 
her was now shared, and since the arrival of his 
daughter M. Tullius found less fault with his do- 
mestic surroundings. Harriet had accepted cen- 
sure and condemnation as her legitimate and 
proper portion ; when M. Tullius complained, 
she was ready to admit that his home was not 
worthy of him, that she herself was a very in- 
sufficient mate for so great a gentleman and 
scholar, and that he had every right to reprove 
and condemn. 

M. Tullius felt instinctively that Margareth 
would receive his strictures in a different spirit. 
Was his home less comfortable than he desired? 
Perhaps, if he denied himself and labored as 
diligently as did the women of the household, 
he might command such comforts as he craved. 

154 


THE MODERN JOAN 


155 


Was he disappointed in his wife? He had 
chosen her, and had taken and used all her 
little property. Why should he devote his 
energies to faultfinding ? It would be more 
practical to spread in his home the good cheer 
of encouragement ; and if his surroundings were 
not up to his merits, let him raise them to his 
level by due exertion. Professor Poland con- 
sidered that his daughter was quite enough like 
himself to think and express these reasonable 
opinions. She might be a girl to sacrifice her- 
self, but she was not a girl to assert that the de- 
mand for that sacrifice was either legitimate or 
virtuous. 

When Harriet recovered, she took upon her- 
self the housework and the care of the children, 
and added to this labor as much sewing as she 
could make time for ; and Harriet was a diligent 
worker. Margareth, for her share, took the 
teaching of her two pupils, sewing, and opened 
a new industry in repairing or reconstructing 
damaged toys for Mrs. Benson. During the 
busy months of December and January she 
also acted as saleswoman in the toy-shop. 

On the Sabbath, Margareth went regularly to 
church and to Sunday-school, taking Persis with 
her. She urged Harriet to attend one service in 
the day, but Harriet had a quiet indifference to 
religious things that was quite as disheartening 
as the jesting and questioning of Pufus or the 


156 


ROLAND^S DAUGHTER. 


derision of the professor, who valiantly proclaim- 
ed himself “ a heathen of the Ciceronian style/’ 

‘‘ I heard Mr. Villeroy say,” observed Marga- 
reth to her father, that boasting of being 
heathen like Cicero or Cato or Epictetus is quite 
false boasting, for they, while heathen, were up 
to or beyond the level of the best teachings of 
their religion ; they sought for truth and desired 
to go forward, and not backward, in knowledge 
and virtue. Those who in this day reject divine 
light and teaching to go back to the opinions of 
men who had less light do not follow the exam- 
ple of Cicero, who studied and accepted the 
best opinions that he could discover among all 
teachers.” 

When M. Tullius was at home — which he was 
more often in winter than in warm weather — he 
enjoyed discussing subjects with his daughter, 
and often the discussions resulted in this good, 
at least — that he thought of some book that 
would be useful to Margareth to read, and se- 
cured it for her from the library. She spent the 
winter evenings in reading and study, except 
when she went to lectures, to which Rufus was 
always ready to escort her. When she studjed 
at home, she frequently secured her father’s aid 
and instruction, and so kept him safely in the 
house after supper. On such occasions Harriet 
showed great discretion in keeping the children 
quiet and out of sight. 


THE MODERN JOAN. 


157 


“ Margareth/’ said M. Tullius one day, after 
carefully observing Persis, ‘‘that child is very 
much improved since you came here; she is 
fat and healthy, also she seems intelligent and 
is quite good-looking. I thought she was going 
to be ugly. I am not fond of ugly people ; all 
my children have been handsome, as they have 
all resembled me. - You are most like me in 
mind, as you are fond of books, which E-ufus, 
unhappily, abhors. I see gleams of intellect in 
Persis, and possibly, under your care, she may 
so develop that she may be worthy of educa- 
tion.’’ 

“ Me no want ed’cation,” said Persis, who had 
become attentive on hearing her own name ; 
“ me want a b’oom.” 

“ What ?” said her father. 

“ Me want a b’oom, to feep,” cried Persis, em- 
phatically. 

Margareth burst into a laugh : 

“ I think the genius of Persis is entirely in 
the line of housework. What she likes is to 
fuss about, rubbing the furniture and picking 
up scraps from the carpet.” 

“ Me like feep, dus’, make beds,” cried Persis ; 
“many lots of beds— papa’s bed, my bed, Nufus’ 
bed. Me like to help Lady.” 

M. Tullius shook his head : 

“ Those seem to me very low tastes, Marga- 
reth. Do you think she inherited them from 


158 


ROLAND^ S DAUGHTER. 


her mother ? I married Harriet in one of the 
emergencies of my life. There was a time, 
Margareth, when, struck with remorse at having 
used up all your property and made you desti- 
tute, I endeavored to break loose from the habit 
that ruined me. I fled to Maine, as it was a pro- 
hibition State, but then it was a State where I 
was unknown, had no friends, could And nothing 
to do, until, maddened by inertia and having the 
temptation of a little cash in hand, and appetite 
always being more dominant in idleness, I came 
here. I have injured you, my daughter, but it 
is not so much my fault as the fault of law that 
permits men to be tempted beyond what they are 
able to bear. In that the human does not copy 
the divine, if the Scripture speaks truly. Now, 
it seems to me that, as the human mind reaches 
its highest development in the region of law- 
making, in that it should be likest the divine ; 
for Cicero says, ‘The human mind being de- 
rived from the divine mind, with no other than 
with God himself, if it is right so to speak, can 
it be compared.’ ” 

“ You are quite right, father, as to what hu- 
man law should be, and it is a thousand pities 
that what it should be it is not. But when hu- 
man law fails to help us, we can by prayer take 
refuge in the divine and get grace to help in 
every time of need. Don’t talk about having 
injured me; we will let that drop: you have 


THE MODERN JOAN. 


159 


injured yourself much more, and a little money- 
injury done to me is really nothing in compari- 
son with my loss in having you less a good, no- 
ble, honorable, respected father than, with all 
your gifts, you might be.” 

M. Tullius shook his head. It was Sunday 
afternoon. Harriet had gone down stairs for a 
little gossip with her cousin, Mrs. Benson. Mar- 
gareth sat opposite her father, with the infant, 
Archie, on her lap. 

Margareth,” said her father, changing the 
conversation, ‘‘that child has a very beautiful 
face and very intelligent eyes, but some way it 
holds itself wrong and has an odd appearance. 
I never noticed it much before. In fact, I never 
noticed infants much. You and Bufus had 
nurses to keep you out of sight until you were 
presentable.” 

“This child,” said Margareth, quietly, “will 
always hold itself differently from other chil- 
dren : it is deformed.” 

She did not know what effect this would have 
on M. Tullius; Harriet had greatly feared to 
have him know that his youngest child would 
have a crooked back. Now he started and 
turned pale, but the sad fact seemed to rouse 
whatever of the father and the man there was 
in him. He took the child in his hands for the 
first time since the little one had been born, and 
held him on his knee : 


160 


ROLAND'S DAUGHTER. 


“ What a misfortune ! Always to be an object 
of the pity or dislike of other men ! I have al- 
ways taken great satisfaction in my appearance ; 
it is a proper subject for pleasure. Cicero and 
other wise men enumerate beauty among the 
sources of happiness. But, Margareth, this 
child has a fine head and a fine eye. Happi- 
ness does not consist in beauty alone ; virtue is 
in itself sufficient for happiness; but, like the 
ancients, I do not recognize a virtue that has not 
knowledge as one of its component parts. Mar- 
gareth, you and I will educate this child. We 
will secure for him such graces of mind that he 
will forget his deformity of body ; he shall be so 
wise that he will be honored in spite of a crooked 
back. There have been many instances of the 
highest mental advantages conjoined with, but 
victorious over, the greatest physical disadvan- 
tages.’’ 

have thought of that too, father,” said 
Margareth ; but how much more certain he 
would be of securing education and good fortune 
in this world if you should return to your for- 
mer position ! For his sake can you not begin 
again ?” 

Whenever matters personal to himself came 
under consideration, M. Tullius changed the 
conversation. Now he said, 

Margareth, this must have been a great grief 
to his mother.” 


THE MODERN JOAN. 


161 


‘‘ Yes, father ; I think it kept her sick so long 
this summer.’’ 

“ Poor thing ! Poor Harriet !” Then he put 
the child back on Margareth’s lap. “ Marga- 
reth, this unfortunate child must look mainly 
to you. Will you promise me never to desert 
him ?” 

‘‘ I will never desert him. But consider, 
father : he has you.” 

‘‘ I, unfortunately, am a broken reed, piercing 
the hand that leans upon me. My three wives 
have found it so.” 

And the child has his own mother.” 

“ Yes, and no doubt she loves him ; but love 
for an unfortunate like this must have a deeper 
foundation than natural affection. That may 
yield to self-interest or the expulsive force of 
some new affection. I am not a religious man, 
Margareth, yet I know that there are crucial 
moments in life when the one strength to be 
relied on is the divine Strength that I reject. 
You have religious force, Harriet has none ; 
therefore I feel that you rather than the mother 
should be relied on for this unhappy child. And 
yet we will not anticipate evil. If he grows up, 
he may have a straight, strong, large mind even 
in a small, weak, crooked body.” 

And if he does not grow up,” said Marga- 
reth, he will have a straight, strong, beautiful 
body in heaven.” 

11 


102 


BOLAND^ S DAUGHTER. 


More than this frail human body laid across 
his way would be needed to turn Roland from 
that path of death which he had chosen. That 
downward road grows constantly steeper, and 
progress upon it is accelerated. Though M. 
Tullius stayed more at home during the winter, 
he came home more often in a state of drunken- 
ness. 

As Harriet was relieving her of all housework 
and she was not obliged to rise to prepare the 
breakfast, Margareth made a practice of estab- 
lishing herself with her books in the little sit- 
ting-room which her father occupied, and there 
waiting for his and Rufus’s return. Rufus 
usually came first. He would warm his feet, 
ask for something to eat, laugh at Margareth’s 
remonstrances at his mode of spending his even- 
ings, saying he was at no harm — had merely had 
a game of billiards or had seen a match out at 
pool or tenpins — and then saunter off to bed, 
telling her to give herself no concern about him 
and declaring that he would come out all right 
some time. Her father’s moods varied. 

‘‘ Why is it I always find you up ? Possibly 
you think I am not old enough to find my way 
to my room and put out my own light ? Daugh- 
ters are all very well, but it is less comfortable 
when they undertake to play police. Very 
proper of you to look after Harriet : she is 
not over-bright, she has no education ; but I 


THE MODERN JOAN, 


163 


— I am a man, I have been professor of Latin 
in a college.’’ 

Yes, father ; I sit up to make you more com- 
fortable when you come in. Will you have some 
hot tea ?” 

I will call for what I want. You sit up to 
play the spy on me. Rufus is much older than 
you, but he does not sit up to watch me.” 

“ See, now ! Your bed is open, and here are 
your night-clothes. Are you quite warm ? Shall 
I come back for the light?” 

‘‘I thank you; I can wait on myself. You 
cannot deceive me as to your intentions by pre- 
tending to wait on me. I see clearly that you 
sit up to condemn me. You condemn my ways 
of enjoying myself. My hours do not please 
you, my companions do not please you, my 
pleasures do not please you. But what? We 
are not all made alike ; Cicero says ‘ Te tua, 
me delectant mea.’ If you had studied Latin, 
you would know my meaning. But I forgive 
you.” 

This was painful enough, but it was still more 
painful when he came home lachrymose. Then 
he would drop into the great chair and exclaim : 

Still waiting for me, wronged, beggared, for- 
giving child ! Harriet has gone to her bed. She 
considers only herself : that is quite natural ; but 
you wait for me. Oh what a fate is mine ! Have 

* “Your ways please you; mine, me.” 


164 


ROLAND^ S DAUGHTER. 


I not struggled ? Have I not sworn ? Have I 
not mourned ? Was it my fault that I was born 
with a taste for strong drink ? Margareth, do 
you know what atavism is ? Go study inherited 
tendencies. Was it my fault that the customs 
of society surrounded me with temptation, that 
lovely women offered me wine? Was it my fault 
that my friends offered me wine at their tables ? 
Has it been my fault that government licenses 
the making, selling and buying of strong drink ? 
Do you suppose I did not suffer agonies of shame 
when I lost first one and then another Latin pro- 
fessorship? Did I not know remorse when first one 
wife and then another died heartbroken ? Was 
I not miserable when I wasted my all and your 
all ? Have I not shut myself up for days ? Did 
I not fly to a State where there was prohibition ? 
Would I be a drunkard if there were prohibition 
everywhere ? Is it wrong for the weak to cry 
out for help to the strong ? Does it need any 
argument to prove to me eternal misery ? If I 
admit that man is immortal, then the sinning 
man must be immortally miserable ; for in his 
remorse and self-hate and self-accusation he car- 
ries his hell in his own soul when he enters the 
spirit-world. Shaking off the body will not 
change the status of the soul nor shake off its 
burdens. My remorse does not abide in my 
bones or in my flesh : it is in the me — in the in- 
ner, undying, unforgetting ego that cannot perish 


THE MODERN JOAN. 


165 


and go down into the grave with the blood and 
the muscle/’ 

When he had gone to bed thus bewailing, 
Margareth would come back wrapped in a blan- 
ket and sit on the floor beside his lounge-bed, 
and stroke his hot head with her soft cool hands 
and sing to him sweet old hymns — Sun of my 
soul, my Saviour dear,” or Jesus, a single thought 
of thee,” or ‘‘ Come, ye disconsolate.” It might 
have made angels weep to see the tossing, demon- 
vexed man, the girl, fair, young, faithful, and to 
hear the voice soft and low in the shadows. 
Lulled at last, M. Tullius would sleep, and then 
Margareth, calmed by the spirit of her hymns, as 
her father had been by their music, would go to 
her room and find profound rest for herself. 

Joan, the French maid, beholding her country 
desolated, felt herself called by God and buckled 
on armor to go to the rescue of her king and to 
drive out his enemies. There are many house- 
holds to-day invaded by the hosts of sin — house- 
holds whose sole hope is in maiden-knights that 
' hour by hour do battle for the rescue of their 
homes. Their panoply is invisible — the whole ar- 
i mor of God, that they may withstand in the evil 
day.” One of these maiden -knights of the nine- 
! teenth century was Margareth, on whom devolved 
[ the burden of the defence of her home. To stay 
I the failing courage of Harriet, to protect the two 
I little ones, to rescue Rufus, to check the down- 


166 


ROLAND^ 8 DAUGHTER. 


ward course of her father, — all this fell on her. In 
warfare of offence and defence she became skilled. 
One while she was in a state of siege ; she gathered 
in her household, whose members the beleag- 
uering enemy attacked and defeated as soon 
as they appeared beyond the walls. Sometimes, 
when they went out, she went also to protect 
them ; sometimes by prayers and by reasoning 
she tried to supply them with weapons and ar- 
mor for their own defence. But there were 
sharpshooters and outworks and hostile towers 
on every street-corner, and Margareth knew that 
the sapping and mining went on in all direc- 
tions ; and whenever she threw up a new breast- 
work or strengthened a gate or deepened a moat, 
the enemy could erect a taller counter-battery or 
a new countervallation or bring a heavier siege- 
gun or dig a deeper mine to-morrow. 

When you estimated the progress of this war- 
fare by months, Margareth’s was the losing side. 
Bufus never saved his salary for any purpose 
whatsoever. Bufus was in debt ; bills came in 
which he laughed at, and his guardian’s name 
was kept a profound secret from his creditors. 
Bufus never made himself so valuable that he 
received promotion in his business; in truth, 
Margareth suspected that he more than once nar- 
rowly missed losing his situation. He spoke 
lightly of it, saying it was a situation quite below 
his birth, breeding, appearance and abilities. 


THE MODERN JOAN. 


167 


Sometimes Rufus tried to persuade Margareth 
to ‘‘ lend him part of the cheque sent monthly 
for his board ; that she steadily refused : it would 
be unjust to Harriet and the children, 

‘‘We can barely live now/’ she said. 

“ Oh, come I You are so industrious you could 
make it up,” 

“ I could, but I will not,” replied Margareth. 
“ I will do for you anything in reason ; I even 
go beyond reason. If you were sick and help- 
less, I would risk injuring my own health by 
toil to make you comfortable, but I shall take no 
such risk merely to indulge you in sin or selfish- 
ness. I shall take honest care of myself for the 
sake of the future. I am seeing hard times now 
— we all are ; but I believe that God will send 
me good some time, and I mean to be ready to 
use and enjoy it when it comes.” 

Over that future, with its possible good, the 
fate of Rufus hung like a heavy cloud. Her 
father was never violent, never even cross, when 
intoxicated ; if he said disagreeable things, it was 
in a peevish, not an angry, tone. But when Ru- 
fus had indulged in ale and wine, his face flushed, 
his eye lit, his voice elevated itself, he asserted 
himself ; no place seemed equal to his ideas of 
his own merits, no treatment was good enough 
for his deservings. Margareth thought that if the 
time came when Rufus took stronger and more 
alcoholic liquors he might be dangerously violent. 


168 


BOLAND *S DA UGHTEB. 


These same ideas gained possession of Har- 
riet : 

“If your brother ever took to drinking, I 
should be afraid of him. He would be quar- 
relsome and reckless; he might kill me or the 
children.” 

“ Don’t live in fear of what may never hap- 
pen. I will take care of you,” replied the cou- 
rageous maiden. “Before he kills you or the 
children he will have me to settle with.” 

Thus Margareth was the champion of the 
family. 


CHAPTEE IX. 


MISTRESS QUINCET TO THE BESCUE. 

“ The heavens are better than this earth below : 

They are of more account, and far more dear ; 

We will look up, for all most sweet and fair, 

Most pure, most excellent, is garnered there.” 

T he trouble with Rufus became the pressing 
trouble of Margareth’s life. The knowledge 
of her father’s great failing had come to her 
early, and the realization of its enormity had 
been gradual — she had never known him free 
from his besetting demon — but Rufus she had 
known as a joyous, innocent boy ; her first mem- 
ories of childhood were associated with him, her 
dictatorial, affectionate playmate with all good 
possibilities before him, and beside those bright 
pictures of the past must stand, in their horrible 
dreariness, these scenes of the valley of the shad- 
ow of death into which he was going down. He 
was so young ; there might be so many years of 
life before him, such vast possibilities of happi- 
ness and well-doing. Within poor weary Mar- 
gareth’s breast arose bitter thoughts, angry yet 
unavailing risings against her brother’s evil for- 


170 


BOLAND DAUGHTER. 


tunes. Was it his fault that he had been born 
heir of his father’s thirst ? Was it his fault that 
early example had been pernicious, that he had 
been in childhood severed from home to segre- 
gate him from his father’s disastrous example, 
that now all his father’s influence was leagued 
with the powers of hell for his son’s destruction ? 
And yet in calmer moments came the sad recog- 
nition of the fact that Kufus was voluntarily 
going downward, step by step, to lower and yet 
lower depths. From beer and wine, moderately 
partaken, he had gone to whisky and brandy in 
occasional excess, and they wrought flerce havoc, 
notwithstanding his burly strength, with his hot, 
excitable temper. 

‘‘ This misery about Rufus is worse, twice over, 
than the misery of my father’s case,” cried Mar- 
gareth to Mrs. Quincey. ‘‘I cannot endure it, 
I cannot understand it ; it drives me frantic. I 
have prayed for him, and it seems as if I pray 
to the winds or against gates of brass. As sure 
as I pray much, and more earnestly than usual, 
so sure, it seems, is he to break out worse than 
ever, until I am afraid to pray for him. In 
earth and heaven there seems no compassion for 
him but in my heart.” 

“ Such compassion is not — cannot be — ^inspired 
by the devil, Margareth : this your pity flows to 
your brother through your heart from God ; and 
the fountain must be fuller than the stream. 


MISTRESS QUINCEY TO THE RESCUE. 171 

Whatever you feel for Kufus, God feels still 
more.” 

But if it were in my power, I would reform 
him at once. I would rescue him before he sin- 
ned or suffered more.” 

God’s ways are not as our ways, and it is 
good to know that they are not lower than our 
ways, but higher. God gives in his own time 
because his, all things understood, is a better 
time, and he gives in his own way because his 
is a better way. This sorrow about Eufus is 
your cross, Margareth. You know Christ says, 
‘ If any man will come after me, let him deny 
himself, and take up his cross and follow me.’ 
Now, Margareth, mark : it says his cross ; it 
means some cross especially prepared and de- 
signed by the Lord for him. We cannot go 
about seeking or preparing some cross for our 
ownselves, to suit our own notions of what 
would be good for us and not be any trouble to 
carry. If we could do that, we should spend 
our whole lives picking and choosing, and not 
have any crossbearing at all. But crossbearing 
is the portion of the Christian, for the disciple is 
not greater than his Master, nor the servant 
above his Lord. Christ bore his cross, and so 
must we bear ours; and, moreover, that cross 
was of his Father’s ordaining, even though of 
merits fashioning: men hewed the wood, and 
Roman hands prepared the cross of Christ. 


172 


BOLAND^S DAUGHTER. 


So our crosses very often have so clear a human 
making that in them we forget to see God be- 
hind the human hand. Another thing about 
the crossbearing is that, while the allotting it 
is God’s part, the taking it up and carrying it 
is our part. Not that we could get rid of it by 
refusing to carry it, but that verse about carry- 
ing it means that we should be patient under it ; 
and if so be we cannot be glad of it — as, I’m 
sure, we are not required to be when the cross 
is another’s sin — still we can say, ‘ Not my will, 
but thy will, be done,’ and trust perfectly that 
God will bring good out of evil. He that trusts 
in God shall not be ashamed, and he that be- 
lieves God shall not be confounded.” 

‘‘ But,” asked Margareth, can this patient 
bearing of the cross go along with constant ardent 
praying for its removal, as I do when I pray 
continually for my brother’s reform ? I can 
understand why Paul could stop praying for 
the removal of his thorn in the flesh : that was 
a personal trouble in which there was no sin ; 
but I do not believe that he ever stopped pray- 
ing for the salvation of Israel, whose unbelief he 
said was to him a continual heaviness and sorrow 
of heart.” 

“ Quite right you are,” replied Mrs. Quincey ; 
‘‘ we may often stop praying for the removal of 
some personal or finite grief, but I don’t know as 
we are to stop praying for the conversion of 


MISTRESS QUINCEY TO THE RESCUE. 173 

any one that is laid upon our heart. The cross 
is given us for some end, and that very end may 
be to bring us closer to God in prayer. If there 
is anything we may have confidence in, it is in 
God’s hearing us in our intercessory prayers. In 
intercessory prayer we are nearest in likeness to 
our Lord, who prayed for his people as long as 
he stayed on earth, and continues to intercede in 
heaven. And then, again, prayers for soul-sav- 
ing must be inspired by the Holy Spirit, who, 
it seems to me, will not dictate waste prayers or 
prayers against his own intentions. In these 
prayers, too, we pray in the line of the divine 
idea, because God says that he is not willing that 
any should perish, but that all should come to 
the knowledge of the truth. You are not will- 
ing that Hufus should perish ; it has been laid 
on your soul to pray for his salvation. God also 
is not willing that the lad should perish.” 

But oh, then, why does he let him go on in 
sin ?” 

“That we do not know. We do know that 
where sin abounded grace doth much more 
abound. Also the word is that he turneth the 
wrath of man to praise him, and the remainder 
he will restrain. That means that he will not 
let sin go any farther than will serve for the 
glory of God and some one’s growth in grace. 
Now, so far as you are concerned, there may be 
a certain amount of growth in knowledge, faith, 


174 


ROLAND^ S DAUGHTER. 


patience, perseverance, that you must get out of 
this very trouble, and as soon as that is gained 
God will restrain or cut short any evil that 
might go beyond that limit. So far as Rufus 
is concerned, it may be that a certain amount 
of falling and sinning and suffering is needed 
to make him hate sin and seek God. The ser- 
pent, you know, cured the bite of the serpent ; 
some men get sick of sin only by sinning. As 
a mere moralist Rufus might get through this 
world decently and be just as far from God as 
was the emperor Nero, and have no hope in the 
life to come, but he may by sinning learn to let 
go himself and to take hold on the cross ; he 
may see himself so vile that only the blood shed 
from the foundation of the world can help him, 
and fly to that.^’ 

‘‘ I cannot understand you two at all,’’ inter- 
rupted Harriet ; “ you talk of the queerest 
things ! How can you enjoy this talk all about 
the cross?” 

Because in it is all our hope, ma’am,” an- 
swered Mrs. Quincey. ‘‘ But truly, perhaps, you 
would like better to have us get on farther, and 
talk of the crown?” 

“ It seems all one,” said Harriet, ‘‘ cross or 
crown ; I cannot understand either of them. I 
only understand real things.” 

‘‘ Why, ma’am,” said Mrs. Quincey, these 
seem to me to be the most real things of all ; 


MISTRESS QUINCEY TO THE RESCUE. 175 

they are so real that they belong not only to 
this life, but to the life to come. Living alone 
as I do, my mind often fixes on these things, and 
my reading is mostly the Bible and Scott’s and 
Henry’s commentaries, which my good father 
owned, and I can talk freely enough of these 
matters when once I get started.” 

“ If you could only tell us something practical 
to cure Bufus, I’d be glad enough,” said Harriet, 
“ for I’m afraid as death of him.” 

The struggle with the demon in Bufus came 
soon. He returned home one afternoon at an 
hour when he should have been at the store. 
He had been drinking ; his blood and brain were 
on fire. As soon as he entered the room and 
caught sight of the blanched cheek and quiver- 
ing lips of Harriet his fury rose : 

‘‘ What are you and that girl of yours doing 
here? She is just like you — both fools; and 
fools are not fit to live. Oh, you needn’t be 
afraid for the boy; he’s bad enough off as it 
is. What did you make him with a crooked 
back for ? Don’t you know better ? I’ll teach 
you better !” He stooped for a stool, and swung 
it across the room. 

Margareth sprung to her feet. She had heard 
that a firm eye could quell wild beasts and maniacs ; 
hers should cow this raging demon in her brother. 
Her blood boiled in indignation against him. 

“ Bufus !” she cried, in such a voice that he 


176 


ROLAND^ S DAUGHTER. 


looked toward her ; and, fixing her eyes on his, 
she held his gaze and went firmly toward him. 

Looking fixedly at her, his jaw fell and he 
shrank back. She moved on, and without di- 
verting her gaze suddenly seized both his wrists. 
Then, looking still into his eyes, she gently 
pressed him backward — back through the door 
he had entered, back into the hall, softly back 
toward his own room, her hands grasping his, 
her eyes on his, their chests and faces not two 
feet apart. If the door of his room should not 
be open ! But, thank God ! it was open. Back, 
step by step, in profound silence, until they 
reached his bed. She pressed his yielding 
figure down ; she lifted his hands and hers to 
his chest and bore him against his pillow. Then 
she spoke: 

Bufus, lie there, and do not move until you 
are better.’^ 

Bufus made this extraordinary reply : 

“ Madge, you vision, your eyes are black ; I 
thought they were gray. They are black ! 
Awful black! Fearful black! Black as ink! 
Black as jet!’’ 

Backward, looking at him still, the girl with- 
drew until she could close and lock the door 
between them. 

For an hour, if any one had listened, Bufus 
would have been heard in tones of profound 
conviction repeating, ‘‘Your eyes are black! 


MISTRESS QUINCEY TO THE RESCUE, 177 

Fearful black! Black as ink! Black as jet!” 
The impression of those eyes which he had sup- 
posed to be a tender gray and had found a terrif- 
ic black remained with him whenever he became 
intoxicated. Once let Margareth fix his gaze 
and he yielded, lost entirely in a consideration 
of her eyes. The iniquities of his stepmother 
in being a fool and bearing Persis in her own 
likeness and bestowing on the family a crooked 
boy were forgotten, and while his maze continued 
Margareth could lock him up. When alone, 
with no subject for irritation, he thought upon 
her eyes until he fell asleep. He seldom drank, 
and when not drinking was genial and generous. 
More than once he spent his week’s wages for a 
suit for Persis or a dress-pattern for Harriet or 
something for Margareth, and seldom came in 
without some trifling thing for little Archie, for 
whom he felt intense compassion. He lost first 
one situation and then another by absenting him- 
self on a drinking-spree. When he lost the 
second, it was within six or seven weeks of his 
majority, and he said the loss was of no conse- 
quence: he should soon have money in hand 
and did not care to continue to be a clerk ; he 
meant to enter business. 

Margareth begged him at once to look up some 
business or proper investment of his money, so 
that he would not be tempted to spend by hav- 
ing the little capital in his hands. He always 
12 


178 


ROLAND’S DAUGHTER. 


assented to whatever she proposed, but seldom 
carried assent into practical act. He was to go 
to Philadelphia to see his guardian and settle 
with him, and it was Margareth’s ardent wish 
that he should go with a clear brain and without 
any traces of dissipation. She secured occupa- 
tion as far as possible for his idle hours; she 
remained by him constantly and went out with 
him in the evenings, developing all her resources 
of entertaining to hold him by her side, out of 
reach of dangerous influences. 

Rufus felt grateful for her generous care ; he 
was affectionate, and repaid love for love. All 
that he could do for any one he would do for 
Margareth ; he would not conquer his appetite 
for her sake, but he would restrain it. He per- 
suaded her to go to Philadelphia with him : 

‘‘ Come ! You’ll keep me out of mischief ; 
you’ll prevent my spending my all the day I get 
it; you will enjoy the journey. Get yourself a 
decent traveling-outfit, and I’ll pay you the 
money back as soon as my guardian settles up. 
Borrow the cash from Mrs. Benson for a month, 
and I’ll make it right.” 

No doubt her company would be for his safe- 
ty, so Margareth went. The journey was delight- 
ful ; the guardian was a kind man and an honest. 
He was much pleased with Margareth, and 
seemed surprised and relieved that his ward hnd 
not already hopelessly ruined himself. The 


MISTBESS QUINCEY TO THE RESCUE, 179 

inheritance to be paid was small — only twelve 
hundred dollars — but the settlement was prompt 
and accurate. 

“Many great fortunes,” said the guardian, 
“have been built upon a foundation of twelve 
hundred dollars when well laid in honesty and 
enterprise. That is enough for any young fellow 
to handle ; if you wouldn’t make your way with 
that, you wouldn’t with more. Now, if you will 
stay here and set yourself at work, I can show 
you how to place that money so as to make a 
good business-opening for you.” 

“You are very kind,” replied Rufus, “and I 
mean to set up in some line as soon as I have 
looked about a little; but I think I will go back 
to Boston : I’m acquainted there now.” 

Margareth, on her part, as her brother resolved 
to return with his money in his own possession, 
urged him to put it in some place where it could 
only be drawn out on long notice ; she thought 
that thus there might be a little stay in the tide 
of recklessness which she foresaw. 

“That would never do; I might find some- 
thing first rate in which I should wish to invest 
immediately.” 

“ But if you had the money in a safe bank, it 
would do.” 

“ Oh, I’m tired of leading-strings. But I’ll 
tell you, Margareth : I’ll deposit somewhere and 
give you some signed checks, and each month 


180 


ROLAND^S DAUGHTER. 


you can fill them out to the amount of my board, 
and so you’ll be safe ; and some time when I see 
a good thing I’ll go into it.” 

‘‘ But, Bufus, this is very little money ; unless 
you tie it up in some good business now, it will 
not last you a year.” 

Oh, I won’t be so foolish as to be beggared 
in a year,” said Bufus. 

Day followed day and weeks grew into months, 
but Bufus found no occupation — scarcely sought 
any. Idle walks about the streets, hours at bil- 
liards or pool, evenings at the theatre, — these 
filled in his time; and in all he was abetted, 
encouraged, by his father. M. Tullius helped 
his son to waste the remnant of fortune which 
his dying mother had hoped would build up for 
him an independence. M. Tullius borrowed 
little sums constantly, urged Bufus to dine daily 
at a restaurant ; and now that he could procure 
a little money from Bufus the ex-professor earned 
nothing at all. 

Margareth knew what dining at a restaurant 
meant : it meant bottles of beer or wine and Bu- 
fus to pay the bill. She set herself against it, 
and there she succeeded. Bufus really loved his 
sister; for his unpaternal father he had little 
more than good-natured indifierence. Some- 
times, when he realized at what a terrible pace 
he was moving on the downward way, he felt 
risings of rage against a father whose hand 


MISTRESS QUINCEY TO THE RESCUE. 181 

helped him to ruin rather than drew him 
back. 

The autumn and the winter passed. On a 
stormy February morning Margareth heard her 
father proposing to Rufus that they should 
“ drop in on Kelly. Kelly, as Margareth 
knew, kept a place marked ‘‘ Pool and Billiards 
for Drinks also at Kelly’s might be enjoyed 
unlimited drinks not won by pool or billiards, 
and the air was reeking with tobacco-smoke and 
ringing with oaths. So low had the Latin pro- 
fessor fallen as to propose this resort to his son. 
With all her heart Margareth opposed the sug- 
gestion which she had heard, but father and 
brother were bent on destruction. She turned 
to her father : 

You are ruining him ; you are destroying 
the soul of your son. What will you say to 
his dead mother when you meet her in judg- 
ment ?” 

‘‘ Never mind, Madge,” said Rufus. It is a 
dull day ; I’ll go this time, and then for a month 
I’ll be as good a fellow as ever you saw. Per- 
haps I’ll turn over a new leaf entirely.” 

They did not come home to dinner ; the after- 
noon was closing when the younger of the Ben- 
son girls rushed up stairs crying, 

‘‘Margareth, they are bringing your brother 
in dead, or something ! Hear them ! There 
they come!” 


182 


BOLAND^S DAUGHIEB. 


Margareth heard feet stumbling along the 
encumbered stairs. She threw open her father^s 
room and turned back the clothes from the 
bed. 

“They must bring him here/’ she said. “Run 
and get a doctor, if they have none.” 

Harriet dropped into a chair crying and 
wringing her hands as Rufus was carried in, 
white, unconscious, his hair and clothes clotted 
with blood. 

Margareth had no tears to shed ; it was hers 
to act. 

“ Help me undress him,” she said to the police- 
man who carried Rufus by the shoulders, “ and 
order those others away, please. I have sent for 
a doctor.” 

The policeman cleared the room and the halls, 
helped Margareth put Rufus properly in bed, 
and then aided her to bathe his face and head 
in hot water. The man looked on amazed as 
the girl calmly washed the ugly wound in the 
head and then, taking a comb and a pair of 
scissors, cut Rufus’s hair close, making all ready 
for the surgeon. 

“ Confound it !” said the man in blue ; “ a miss 
of your wit and pluck deserves a better office. 
They got into a quarrel about a game of pool, 
and some one struck him over the head with a 
bottle. Only wonder is it did not kill him on 
the spot. Now here’s your doctor.” 


MISTRESS QUINCEY TO THE RESCUE. 183 

“ Will he live ?” asked Margareth, when the 
examination was over. 

‘‘We must make a fight for it, but you know 
there are very heavy odds against a drinking- 
man. However, he is young.’’ 

It was late when M. Tullius came in. Har- 
riet had taken the children and gone to bed in 
Margareth’s room ; the girl watched alone by 
her unconscious brother. She took her father 
by the hand and led him to the couch : 

“ See there ! Who is responsible for that ?” 

“ Not I, Margareth ; I tried to get him away 
from there.” 

“ Also you tried to get him to go there. It is 
easier to lead men into evil than out of evil. He 
may — probably will — die.” 

“ You see, Margareth,” mumbled M. Tullius, 
who had heard of the disaster and taken refuge 
from remorse in drinking, “they quarreled. I 
saw there was a low, noisy set coming in, and I 
went off, telling Rufus to come, or to go home.” 

“But you first took him to a place frequented 
by low, noisy, quarrelsome people ; the result is 
that in his youth, when he might be all that is 
good, he may die a violent death.” 

“ Plena vita exemplorum est,” replied M. Tul- 
lius, sedately. 

The next day he was sober and in a different 
mood : 

“I know you are blaming me, Margareth — I 


]84 


ROLAND DAUGHTER, 


am to blame — but you cannot condemn me as I 
condemn myself. Do you think I don't see 
where I have fallen, and from whence? Do I 
not think that but for me my son might be 
happy and good and honorably placed, that you 
might be the ornament of refined society ? Have 
I not resolved, feared, fallen ? The world is one 
great snare to men of my make ; there is a net 
spread at the corner of every street. Law should 
help, not hunt down, men who, like me, are weak/’ 
He was well skilled in throwing on society and 
law the responsibility for his own misdeeds. 

He remained at home and nursed his son, who 
was oscillating like a pendulum between life and 
death, one while all the chances swinging far into 
the pulseless chills and darkness of death, again 
young vigor making strife for itself, and the re- 
bound going into the warmth and conscious 
strength of reviving life. 

At the end of the first week Mrs. Quincey 
came in : 

Well, I didn't know why I left Washington 
so early as the first of March. All manner of 
little things seemed to point me home — ^a fence 
to be set up, a morsel of painting, some trees to 
trim and set out, a dozen little nothings calling 
me away from the capital before Congress rose. 
But as soon as I saw Mrs. Benson below I knew 
where I was needed, and you see the Lord knew 
too. Margareth, if you'll empty my basket — 


IIISTEESS qUINCEY TO THE RESCUE. 185 


some apples and potatoes from my own place, 
a glass of jelly I made last fall, some pork I 
pickled myself — and then dress those two chil- 
dren and put their clothes in the basket, Vll 
take them to my house till your brother gets 
better. Archie will pick up with me ; he needs 
to be fed on new milk and corn bread. You 
may say what you will about his back, but his 
face grows more beautiful every day. He looks 
like a little angel.’’ 

‘‘And he acts like one,” said Margareth, tak- 
ing the child in her lap to put on clean clothes 
for his journey. “ There never was a sweeter 
little man than Archie.” 

“ I’m not a angel — no,” said Persis, bustling 
into her clean dress and apron ; “ I don’t want 
to be angels. I’m growing up so I can cook an’ 
scub an’ make pie for Lady.” 

Mrs. Quincey carried off the children, and in 
the silence, unbroken now by the small shrill 
voices, the battle for life went on. Victory was 
declared for life at last ; the fever passed away, 
the brain ceased its wandering. 

“ I’ve made you lots of trouble, poor Madge ! 
and pretty nearly was done for this time. The 
governor’s been very faithful waiting on me : I 
knew a good bit more than I seemed to. Madge, 
my pockets ?” 

“Yes; I looked after them: you were not 
robbed. I found your bank-book and twenty 


186 


ROLAND'S DAUGHTER. 


dollars in cash. Your account at bank stands 
just six hundred dollars, Rufus. Half your all 
gone in seven months, my poor boy ! Can we 
not do better?’’ 

‘‘ Yes, I ought to, but how can I ? The gov- 
ernor’s in the same case. I think he tries. I 
heard him groaning and moaning and cursing 
himself in Latin and English nights when he 
was here alone with me. Why, Madge, there 
are the restaurants all selling liquor, the hotels 
and their bars, the saloons and the bucket-shops, 
the drug-stores, the groceries. If you sail by 
Scylla, you fall into Charybdis. Think how it 
is : it is lawful to make liquor — lawful to put all 
manner of poison in it, too, I suppose : it’s pro- 
tected by law — lawful to sell it, lawful to buy it, 
lawful to drink it ; and yet drinking it you com- 
mit suicide, which is unlawful ; you beggar your- 
self, break up families, murder other folks. Ah ! 
there is a screw loose somewhere, Margareth.” 

“ If you are too weak to resist temptation, you 
must get out of the reach of it,” said Mrs. Quin- 
cey when she came in one day and Rufus con- 
tinued to her his threnody. “ You are living 
the wrong kind of life altogether. Your hot 
young blood and strong muscles demand exer- 
tion, exercise, an active out-of-door life. Caged 
behind a counter or shut up in the close, warm 
air of stores and saloons, you get wild for some 
excitement, and you find it in drinking. There 


MISTBESS QUINCEY TO THE RESCUE. 187 

are places where no liquor is allowed, and you 
need to find one of them and invest what little 
you have in something that will afford you sup- 
port in an active out-of-door life for you and 
your father both to work at. It is too late for 
your father to think of support in the old learned 
ways ; he must go to work with his hands. The 
children would be better oflP in the country.’’ 

We haven’t enough to go West and buy and 
stock a farm, and we don’t know anything about 
farming,” said Rufus ; but I’m sick of all this, 
and I’d go gladly, and get at hard work gladly, 
for Margareth’s sake, if I could only find a free 
place in the open air.” 

I know I shall think it out if I set at it,” 
said Mrs. Quincey ; “ I always do think out 
what I lay my mind to. My son says, ‘ Mother, 
you’re a wonderful thinker on every-day affairs.’ 
I will go home and talk it over with Thomas 
Henry. Now, you laugh, but I’m in earnest. 
You don’t know how much good talking it over 
with Thomas Henry does me. It gives me a 
chance to discuss out loud, and, with him sit- 
ting bolt upright on a chair looking at me, I 
don’t feel so foolish as I would talking to myself. 
Besides, if I talked to myself, the neighbors 
might think me going crazy, but no one objects 
to my talking to my cat. You see, when I talk 
over a plan with Thomas Henry, I have a chance 
to hear my own views and array my arguments. 


188 


ROLAND^ 8 DAUGHTER. 


Then I must reply for Thomas Henry ; so polite 
a creature would, of course, reply, and, as he is 
very intelligent, he would speak excellent sense 
if he spoke at all. Therefore it puts all sides of 
the question, all objections, all improvements, 
clearly before me when I discuss with Thomas 
Henry. We are an excellent congress : he is 
the Lower House, I am the Upper House. Our 
members are elected for life ; at the end of every 
discussion we always reach an agreement; we 
never waste time; we never are bribed; our 
aim is to see exactly what is right ; and I am 
always the Speaker. Now, after a few days, 
when I get light on this subject, I will come 
back and tell you all about it. I make sure I’ll 
reach a good idea after a while.” 


CHAPTER X. 


^^ESCAPE FOR THY LIFEP 

“ As one pursued by word and blow 
Still dreads the shadow of his foe, 

And forward bends his head.” 

“ T’VE made it out/’ cried Mrs. Quincey, rush- 
-L ing into the abode of the Rolands and 
sparing all ceremony of knocking; ‘‘I knew 
I would. And, really, it was all along of 
Thomas Henry. Thomas Henry is more than 
fond of macaroons. Well, I said to him the 
other evening, when I had tucked Persis and 
Archie into bed, ‘Thomas Henry, take your 
seat in the arm-chair ; I must consult with you.’ 
Then I laid it all out plain how some friends of 
mine must leave the city, and the new home they 
must choose must have no whisky allowed in it ; 
must not be too far off, on account of traveling 
expenses ; must be cheap to live in ; must have 
some work open to all the family; must have 
some very low-priced property; must be among 
honest, decent, industrious people. Just there 
Thomas Henry winked his eyes, and I knew 
what he meant. ‘ Quite right you are, Thomas 
Henry,’ says I. ‘ What other kind of people 

189 


190 


ROLAND^ S DAUGHTER. 


would I be likely to find in a place where they 
enjoy prohibition V 

‘‘Well, I talked the whole afiair over with 
Thomas Henry until quite late, and we arrived 
at no conclusion. So I said, ‘We will make 
this bill the first order of the day for to-morrow, 
Thomas Henry,’ and he appeared quite content ; 
but, being tired with applying his mind so se- 
verely to one point, he came to me and as plain 
as preaching — good preaching, I mean — he asked 
for macaroons. Going to the box to get him one, 
very naturally I thought of Mrs. Webb, where I 
bought them. Mrs. Webb keeps a cake-shop in 
our town, and she came from Wei by Haven, 
down here on the coast; and as I thought of 
Mrs. Webb and our frequent conversations I 
remembered she told me that hers was a prohibi- 
tion county, and also that she spoke highly of the 
people as all friendly and quiet, eating their own 
bread, as the apostle enjoins. Also I minded 
that she told me that property was cheap and 
living sure to be made, as the sea is no niggard to 
them that follows it. So I said, ‘ Thomas Hen- 
ry, you were quite right to remind me of Mrs. 
Webb ; to-morrow I shall call in Betty Prigg to 
mind the children, and do you look well after 
Betty Prigg herself while I go and have a word 
with Mrs. Webb. Now, if you have finished your 
macaroon, sit on your mat while I have worship 
and ask a blessing on my visit to Mrs. Webb.’ 


ESCAPE FOB THY LIFE: 


191 


Next day I went to see Mrs. Webb, and I 
laid out the whole thing to her while we had a 
cup of tea and some currant-bun in the room 
back of her shop. Mrs. Webb remarked to me, 

‘ Mrs. Quincey, you have come to the right place 
at the right time.’ Then she proceeded to tell me 
that a cousin of hers, who had lived down at 
Welby Haven on account of his parents, now 
that they were dead was coming up to Boston to 
go into a wholesale fish-house. He has to dis- 
pose of a fishing-boat which she says is ‘cat- 
rigged.’ What that may be I do not know, but 
it struck me it was some kind that would be 
agreeable to Thomas Henry, though he has 
really unreasonable objections to the sea, while 
I admire water in any of its forms. Also the 
boat, she said, was one of the very best there, 
and there goes with it a share of a fourth in a 
fish-house on the shore, and also a house to live in 
which the cousin had for sale. The house is very 
old and very small : it has one big room below, 
and two small ones above; but it is weather- 
tight and has a bit of solid ground about it, 
being built on a knoll in a salt marsh, and the ! 
last house in the village in that direction. There 
is also a little boat for going about the creek 
that winds through the marsh, where one can 
catch clams, crabs and scollops. The fishing-boat 
has a little skiff that goes with it. Mrs. Webb 
says any two men can make a first-rate family- 


192 


ROLAND^ S DAUGHTER. 


living down there fishing. For this summer 
you could hire a fisher of the place to teach 
you the coast and how to sail a boat and how to 
fish. 

‘‘ If you settled to go at once, you would be at 
the very beginning of the fishing-season, which 
lasts all summer in bluefish, bass, blackfish, 
flounders and some cod. Mrs. Webb said no 
doubt Margareth could get the district school 
— if not this year, next — and it pays thirty 
dollars a month and is in sight of the house 
I mentioned ; and there, you see, is a chance 
for Persis to get schooling. She said, too, that 
on a bluff* and a point were fifty handsome cot- 
tages and a hotel where summer visitors lived, 
and that she was sure Harriet could get sewing 
and so on from them, and from the regular in- 
habitants there, because all live in ease and there 
is no lack of comfort, as all the money goes in 
honest needs, and not in whisky-drinking. I 
quite took to all that Mrs. Webb explained to 
me, and she sent her cousin to see me the next 
day. We talked it all over, and Thomas Henry 
listened ; and I saw he approved, for he winked 
his eyes and crimpled his paws and waved his 
tail.’’ 

“ But did Thomas Henry approve the price 
asked practical Margareth. 

‘‘ He ought to, so I’ve no doubt he did. The 
price of the new boat is two hundred dollars; 


ESCAPE FOR THY LIFE: 


193 


the fishing-apparatus and share in the fish-house, 
fifty dollars ; the house on the marsh is two hun- 
dred dollars ; to get moved will cost you fifty at 
the most. The house and boat will always be 
salable property, and they will enable you to get 
a comfortable living in a healthy, honest way. 
If you prosper, you can buy or build another, 
better house and buy another fishing-boat. 
Moreover, Mrs. Webb’s cousin says he will take 
all the fish you ship him, at the regular market 
price. Now, since others live and thrive on the 
fishing, I don’t see why you should not.” 

“ It is the very thing,” cried Rufus, joyfully — 
safe and pleasant, I love the sea and fishing. 
Margareth, we’ll do it. My money will cover 
I all, and give us one hundred still in hand. I 
I dare say, if you and Harriet get at that old house, 

I you’ll make it quite snug and homelike, and we 
I can put on a little paint or paper or whitewash, 
j I say, Madge! you can keep school, and your 
I mind will be easy, and we may build up a busi- 
ness. Who knows ? Oh to be rid of this hor- 
rible, hateful, tempting, terrible city !” 

Mrs. Quincey came, and came again ; she 
went in and out of the Rolands’ home daily. 
Her bonnet with its frills and multitudinous 
bows, her yellow fur cape with all its swinging 
tails, her cheery, rugged, wrinkled face, made 
her grotesque as a Chinese or a Hindu god, but 
not the less a cheery, hopeful tutelary saint of 

13 


194 


ROLAND^S DAUGHTER. 


the almost ruined home. She brought Mrs. 
Webb and Mrs. WebVs cousin ; she planned 
and promised ; and at last the bargain was made 
on the original terms, so that by the middle of 
March all was prepared for a flitting. 

The bustle of moving, the joy of change, the 
possession of property more tangible than paper 
bills, awoke the manhood in Rufus. Long sick- 
ness had enforced long sobriety, so that he was 
in a normal condition for action and improve- 
ment. Margareth grew confident in those busy 
days. M. Tullius had also been stayed a little in 
his downward career ; he too gave signs of better 
things. He quoted from Horace, Plautus, Vir- 
gil and Cicero concerning the sea — their terms 
not complimentary in general, it is true, but the 
words were high and stirring and shed a splen- 
did light of poetry across the hoary waves. 

Harriet and M. Tullius went down to Welby 
Haven with the Lares and Penates, and in a 
few days Margareth, Rufus and the children 
followed them. 

The new home stood alone on the salt marsh, 
an eighth of a mile from any other house; a 
causeway stretched to it from the high-road. 
Not a tree nor bush was near it, but around it 
brooded neither barrenness nor desolation, for 
the rank vegetation of the marsh-lands surged 
to its very door. The house had never been 
painted, but seventy-five years of sun and wind 


ESCAPE FOR THY LIFEP 195 

and salt mists rolling in from seaward had given 
it a soft, mellow tint like newly-riven Melbourne 
slate. The building was low, with a high-pitched 
roof. Facing toward the causeway it had a squat 
door and two narrow windows, which, with the 
gable sloping steeply back, gave it the look of 
some enormous skate or crab cast out of the 
waves and lying blinking and panting on the 
edge of the land. Twice every day the sea rose, 
and the waters filled the tortuous channels 
through the marshes until they brimmed with 
floods of silver, crimson or gold under the glory 
of the sky. Then the waters retreated toward 
the main, and there was to be seen only the rank 
growth of sedge and rush and salt grass and 
rustling reeds, undulating under the breeze with 
slow sweeping motions learned of the waves. 

In the heart of this salt marsh the fugitive 
family lived severed from the world. 

The spring came early there, wooed by soft 
breezes from the deep. Along the causeway 
clung strange plants, and over the rippling 
grasses swung countless dragon-flies of sapphire 
hue, and sea-birds screamed and floated low or 
poised and gazed at intruding humanity, angry 
remonstrance in the birds’ round orange-rimmed 
eyes. 

Hitherto, Margareth had grown mentally by 
books ; she had also grown in physical stature ; 
she had grown by hard proofs in graciousness 


196 


ROLAND^ S DAUGHTER. 


and in the grace of God. Now, for the first 
time, she was placed in the profound silences 
near the great heart of Nature. The new sense 
of art awoke within her; she grew in poetry 
and passion ; her nature rounded to the fullness 
of its completion ; her thoughts took wider range 
now. She had burst the shackles of the cities, 
the limitations of narrow habit; to her, now, 
eternity and immortality and human destinies 
and the broad march of Providence through the 
centuries came in new strength and fullness. 
She seemed to get room to think, room to exist 
largely and fully. To her, when she marked 
how the land lost itself in the sea and the ocean 
in the sky, came deep realizations of the earth- 
life losing itself in the heaven-life, the heaven- 
life broadening and losing itself in the infinite 
glory of God. All the petty cares, the vexa- 
tions, the bitter mortifications, of her circum- 
stances, fell away from her heart. She thought 
and worked for her home as before, but in a 
more free and joyous spirit. There was no 
longer danger that she would be narrowed or 
crushed by fate : now she would conquer fate. 

That summer seemed all brightness and prom- 
ise. Her brother and father, freed from tempta- 
tion and interested in their new life, were out 
from early morning until evening with their 
boat and the fisherman. Persis and Archie 
grew and learned to laugh, their playhouse 


ESCAPE FOR THY LIFE: 


197 


was now so grand and so full of treasures. 
When they crossed the causeway and went along 
the main-road to the shore, Margareth pushing 
Archie in a wicker cart that Rufus had bought 
for him, the sea afforded them, in shells and dried 
dulce, in pebbles, crabs, chains of conchs’ cradles 
and skate-egg rattles, toys far more absorbing 
than the accumulated stores of Mrs. Benson. 

The new life and energy of the family failed 
to inspire Harriet : she had grown stouter, 
stronger ; her color had come back ; she looked 
a very different woman from the one Margareth 
had found, wan and weeping, on a sick-bed ; but 
she was in a state of chronic and fretful discon- 
tent. She never uttered this before M. Tullius 
or Rufus ; it was only to Margareth that she dis- 
closed her inmost soul — a soul without depths, 
troubled, shallow, complaining. Far and wide 
along the uplands swelling back from the sea 
could be seen the white, modest, comfortable 
homes of the hereditary inhabitants, each home, 
with its various outbuildings, looking a thrifty 
little village in itself. These moved Harriet’s 
‘gnawing envy. The villas of the summer resi- 
dents — villas ornate in porches and bay-windows, 
gorgeous paint, finials, crestings and stained glass 
— did not disturb Harriet : they were beyond 
her taste or her craving ; but in the mistresses 
of the farm-cottages she saw what she would 
wish herself to have been. They had their 


198 


ROLAND^S DAUGHTER. 


Sunday gowns and bonnets, their bountiful ta- 
bles, their neighborly friendships, their carryall 
or rockaway drawn by a pair of stout farm- 
horses wherewith to go in state to church or 
make a progress for shopping. 

If I had been wise,” Harriet would say to 
Margareth as they sat on the doorstep with their 
sewing, “ I might have been just as well off. In 
marrying your father I was just looking for 
something quite out of my reach and that would 
not suit me. Suppose he had got back among 
his learned and stylish set ? I shouldn’t have 
enjoyed it much better than I have all this slav- 
ing and misery that I have had.” 

Don’t lose heart,” said Margareth, kindly ; 
“we may be able to do better for you soon. 
Things are much better now than they were. 
If the fishing turns out well for a year or so, 
we can sell this place and build a good house 
near the others. You kept up courage well; 
don’t lose it now.” 

“I’m sick of keeping up courage. I keep 
thinking of what I have lost, or might have 
had. You are very good to me, but I’m not 
your kind ; I know you never think or care 
about what I do. I’m afraid of your brother, 
though he is civil and is supporting us all ; for 
it was his money got us here. I know your 
father don’t care for me, and any married woman 
wants to be cared for and regarded and respected 


ESCAPE FOR THY LIFE:’ 


199 


as more than a bit of furniture. Persis is well 
enough : she is a strong, pretty child one needn’t 
be ashamed of, and soon she will be a help in the 
house; but there’s Archie. Of course I love 
him, as he’s my child, but it is pretty hard for 
a mother not to look forward to her son being a 
support and credit to her. He will always be a 
weight instead of a help. I’m sick of ’tending 
children. I don’t believe I ever had much natu- 
ral fancy for them.” 

Then Margareth recalled that even her father 
had felt that mother-love itself might be a frail, 
unreliable love unless deepened and strengthened 
by the indwelling grace of God. 

With such dissatisfaction in regard to her lot, 
Harriet could not be expected to give warm wel- 
come to the babe that came in September. Hap- 
pily, few infants have so cool a greeting. M. 
Tullius regarded the new-comer with a quiet 
wonder at its audacity in appearing in an over- 
full house ; Pufus remarked that he had no 
idea little kids were so ugly, and if it cried he 
might be counted out of the family, for he should 
not stay to hear it Persis said “ she’d rather 
have a doll Archie gave a deep sigh and his 
pretty mouth drooped as he silently resigned his 
cradle to the stranger. 

“ It seems,” said Harriet, as if work and 
worry would never end. It may be all well 
enough for people who can hand a child over 


200 


ROLAND DAUGHTER. 


to a nurse to be well looked after^ but my luck 
is very different.” 

Margareth pitied her, but still more she pitied 
this small unoffending girl for whom there was no 
refuge save the cabin in the marshes — not even 
shelter in a mother’s heart. She sat by the fire 
with the babe on her knees. The children were 
up stairs, both in Margareth ’s bed now ; M. Tul- 
lius and Rufus were late at the fish-house. Mar- 
gareth wondered if every human soul came to 
earth accompanied by a guardian angel, and if 
that angel’s brow grew sad when the child got 
no greeting. What long, rough ways must these 
small feet tread, and what hard tasks were wait- 
ing these soft, wrinkled hands I 

Welcome or unwelcome, the child looked the 
image of peace. Rufus never heard the cries 
which he had declared should exile him : the 
baby neither wailed nor laughed. As the weeks 
passed on the small white face gained a still, 
statuesque, remarkable beauty. The child sat 
erect on one’s knee or pillowed up in bed or 
cradle, looking on all about with grave receptive 
eyes, as if understanding and judging all, and its 
expression had a divine calm. Harriet slowly 
grew reconciled to the little one, though never 
fond of it. The child preferred Margareth, and 
there was a likeness between the gracious face of 
the young woman and the placid loveliness of the 
babe, though Margareth’s beauty was thoroughly 


mCAPE FOB THY LIFE: 


201 


human, while the little stranger seemed rather 
like a spirit for the time become palpable. 

Margareth had secured the district school for 
that winter, and daily went ofiP at eight o’clock, 
taking Persis with her. The church was more 
than a mile distant. Sometimes she could per- 
suade Pufus to go with her, but he went, rather, 
for the walk through the woods, sweet with scent 
of pine and juniper and lit here and there by 
holly-berries or wreaths of checkerberry or 
flaming wing of some startled bird, than for 
any Sabbath-keeping or hunger for truth. Un- 
happily, the rule was that the flshing-boat was 
out all day Sunday as on other days. 

But the church and the Sabbath were wells in 
the desert to Margareth. October closed on a 
Sabbath, a sacramental Sabbath, in the old coun- 
try church. The congregation was of fishers 
and seafaring folk. The white-haired, bronzed 
elders sat awed and patient around the white- 
covered table; they were unlearned fishermen, 
like some of the first heralds of the gospel. 
The church was full of hardy, weatherbeaten 
faces ; among them, like violets springing up at 
the roots of gnarled oaks, were wide-eyed, round- 
faced children. There were the quiet, submissive 
features of the old, their gaze set wistfully for- 
ward to pierce the secrets of that land whither 
so many of their kin had passed to the majority. 
They listened, and were still. For this hour, at 


202 


ROLAND^S DAUGHTER. 


least, they were lifted from the common facts of 
life and walked the realm of faith. And when 
word and prayer were ended, they rose with one 
accord and burst into the familiar strains of 
Martyrs.’’ Then, subdued by the quiet of the 
hour, the mystic symbols, the unuttered pledge 
of the spirit to holier living, they moved quietly 
along the aisles and out into the sunshine. 

Around the church lay camped the host of the 
dead of that community — the dead of a century 
and a half : the congregation without was greater 
than the congregation within. These men, who 
as sailors and fishers had spent nearly all their 
lives upon the deep, were anchored here at last ; 
these women, who had watched for their coming, 
wept at storms, trembled when the wind rose 
‘‘ and darkness was upon the face of the deep,” 
watched and waited no more, but were for ever 
laid beside their loved ones. 

Margareth went home by way of the beach. 
The sun was setting ; a crimson sky stooped to 
a purple sea. The winds and waters seemed 
chanting an old-time refrain : ‘‘ Thy mercy, O 
Lord, is in the heavens it domes the earth, and 
stoops to humanity on every hand, Thy judg- 
ments are a great deep,” in storm and calm, in 
vengeance and benediction, wide, mysterious, far- 
reaching, life-giving, like the sea. 


CHAPTER XI. 


UPON THE SANDS. 

“ A tract of sand, 

And some one walking there alone 
Who moved for ever in a glimmering land 
Lit by a low large moon.” 

T WO years and more had passed. The third 
summer came to Margareth living still in 
the cottage on the marshes. The days were 
long and bright; the breath of the sea came 
salt, bracing, inspiring ; the woods were full of 
the wealth of summer; life and beauty palpi- 
tated over all the wide sweeps of swaying green 
where wound the narrow channels of the sea; 
the water scintillated and the sands sparkled and 
glittered in the sun. All the world renewed its 
life and fullness, but once more the curse had 
fallen on the home and heart of Margareth. 
The evil thirst had risen again in M. Tullius 
and his son, and they had helped each other to 
gratify the fatal appetite. 

There was no hope now that the little home 
on the marsh should be exchanged for something 
better on the solid land. If the Siren were not 
cast away on the rocks in some sudden gale, if 

203 


204 


ROLAND^S DAUGHTER. 


the very best of the fishing were not neglected, 
if the price from the wholesale dealer were not 
all dissipated, — Margareth might be thankful. 
When two or three claimants stood eager for 
the public school, it was easy to bestow it on 
one who was not likely to have a drunken father 
or brother lounging in, the one insisting on de- 
livering an exhaustive address on the particles 
ut and ne, the other making excited and singu- 
lar remarks about the teacher’s eyes. Margareth 
had held her little kingdom only one winter — 
not long enough to fix upon her the manners 
or methods of the schoolmistress. Then she fell 
back into her shadowed home again, looking, in 
her abundant life and beauty, as unfit for that 
narrow and graceless abode as a tall serene lily 
would look out of place in a thicket of brambles. 
Yet the lily would breathe beauty and perfume 
wherever it grew, and so Margareth filled her 
fallen home with her ministries. 

Her best times were when the boat was safely 
off to the fishing-grounds and Harriet was busy 
at her sewing on the machine, and Margareth 
could take the three children and some light 
work of trimming or embroidery for the nearest 
dry-goods store and go far off along the sands, 
often remaining the whole day, picnicking with 
her little ones in the shadow of some dismantled 
fishing-boat drawn up on the shore to moulder 
away. Such a boat, lying over on its side, its 


UPON THE SANDS. 


205 


keel covered with barnacles and eaten by teredo, 
its steeply “til ted deck affording precarious foot- 
ing to the adventurous Persis, the door of its 
abandoned cabin swinging on one hinge, the 
broken stump of its mast and its great iron- 
bound rudder hinting tales of storm and disas- 
ter, its hold still retaining the sharp odor of fish 
that had therein been brought to shore, and 
every crevice and corner full of bleaching skel- 
etons of fish — strange transparent bones of squid, 
parti-colored scallops and polished carapaces of 
crabs with crooked and multiplied claws still 
adhering, — here was a world of joy and wonder, 
not only to the children, but to Margareth. 

In these two years, with their full draughts 
of bitterness, and also with their cups of sweet- 
ness, Margareth had learned much about the 
world of waters ; she knew its treasures, its 
dangers, its romances. In the cottages near 
them were old sea-captains living on former 
gains and loving to tell stories of the sea ; the 
simple country-folk about had some books, and 
were not loath to lend them ; a village two miles 
away had a rather large free library. From all 
these sources Margareth had gathered knowledge 
of the sea and its inhabitants. She had learned 
ballads of the sea, and she used to chant them in 
a low, sweet monotone to which the plash of the 
billows on the shingle was accompaniment. She 
had learned, too, to manage the small boat, or 


206 


ROLAND^ S DAUGHTER. 


punt, which they kept for the channels in the 
marshes. Often she took the children out in 
this, and Harriet if she would go. When they 
went out in the punt, they gathered from the 
bountiful waters luxuries for their table which 
in cities belong only to the rich. When the tide 
was falling, creeping along in the punt they 
would come to light spots gleaming up in the 
dark water, showing where the blue-crab had 
thrown white sand as he worked under the 
mud ; then down went the long handle with 
the iron cup or scoop and up came the crab, 
while the children shouted with admiration 
and carefully drew up their feet on the seats to 
keep out of the way of the uncanny claws of the 
sprawling tidbit. Out along the channel to the 
verge of the shore, and there the black bank 
kept oysters, and as the tide fell Persis and Mar- 
gareth raked them out, either to carry home or 
to roast upon the shore. What joy to tie up the 
punt and go dangerously tiptoeing along a 
tongue of half-submerged rocks, and, leaning 
over, almost losing balance, to behold in the 
crannies the sharp nose, the many-lensed eyes 
erected on stems or eye-pegs, the long lightly- 
waving antennse, the huge unequal hand-claws 
folded — a lobster ! And now a successful hook 
with the mackerel-gaff, and he is flung back 
upon the rock. But we will forget the methods 
whereby he is prepared for dinner. 


UPON THE SANDS. 


207 


And here, where the waves have come heavily 
in, the scallops are rolled up in hundreds along 
the shore. The fluted shells are crimson, orange, 
red, brown, striped, rayed, pearly-white, painted 
with an inflnite variety in color and design. As 
they open, between the waved outlines of the 
shells is a pellucid veil of orange, dotted regu- 
larly and delicately with a row of indigo spots, 
and within this dainty veil and the soft mem- 
branes the thick, round, ivory-white “ thumb ” 
beloved by epicures. Or here in the sand 
behold a little hole which Persis insisted was 
made by pushing in a slate-pencil. But the 
hole was the breathing-place of the razor-shell ; 
and if hoe or spade followed him fast enough, up 
he must come, to be delicious when baked, and 
to leave his polished brown shell with its tinted 
pearl lining as a choice toy for the children. 

There on the shore the incubus of the family 
curse was thrown off, and no one could so forget 
the sordid miseries of the daily real in quaint 
tales of the half-unreal as could Margareth, 
when, bending with the three child-heads above 
a crab’s hole, she told them of the housekeeping 
going on below the sand — of flies and gnats and 
ladybugs laid up for beef and poultry in that 
underground kitchen, of the crab moiling away 
at his parlor and his bedroom, his store-closet 
and passage-ways, when the tide had come roll- 
ing over his head and the rush and trampling of 


208 


ROLAND^S DAUGHTER. 


the waves were between him and the living world. 
And finally, under the shadow of the worn-out 
boat, they would all sit upon the sand, and the 
baby Stella would fall asleep lying on the skirt 
of Margareth’s blue-flannel frock, and Archie 
would prop himself content against her knee, 
and Persis, kneeling and letting sand run swift- 
ly through her fingers, would lead off the con- 
versation : 

Lady, long ago the Indians had huts made 
of bark all set along the hills where the rich 
people’s houses are to-day? And the little boys 
shot the gulls and the ducks and the alewives 
with arrow-bows ? Lady, where do you suppose 
the seals are that used to play on the rocks ?” 

‘‘ Far north ; they love the cold. When the 
water is warm, they swim away. They are far 
up, where the green and deep-blue icebergs float 
and rock along the sea, and the tops gleam like 
church-spires built of glass and marble, and all 
along the land the broken edges of the glaciers 
shine like the walls of heaven. Persis, just like 
the walls of heaven.” 

“And the old white seal that snorted on the 
rock : he was the grandfather of all, you think, 
Lady ? And the fat dark ones that made a noise 
like calves after the sun was down : they were 
the children, you think ? And when the father- 
seal and mother-seal said, ^ Come, children ; it is 
getting too warm here,’ then they all went off. 


UPON THE SANDS. 


209 


They had no cars to pay, no trunks to pack, no 
good clothes to make, no lunch to get ready; 
they went right on along the sea, the old grand- 
father first, and the fathers and mothers com- 
ing after, and all the dark shiny-skinned little 
children swimming behind. It must be all 
very funny. Lady.’’ 

‘‘ But don’t you think it very wicked for the 
crabs to get up on their toes and fight and bite 
off one another’s hands?” said Archie. “And 
there was the crab we found with his shell all 
crooked from a bite, and there was the scallop 
with the hump : they were just like me.” 

“ You will be all right some day, little man.” 

“ And you will see it — ^see me all straight and 
pretty ?” 

“ I shall see it,” said Margareth, nearly all of 
whose hopes were of blessings garnered in the 
land that lies very far off. 

“ Lady,” said the observing Persis, “ there’s a 
man looking at us.” 

Margareth lifted her eyes. They were on the 
highest ridge of a tongue of beach, on the one 
side the open sea, on the other the entrance to 
the channel, which, with its narrow and tortuous 
manifoldings, went in and out of the marsh- 
lands for miles. Across the channel, seated on 
a bit of jetsam in the shape of a wooden cage 
known as a “ lobster-pot,” was a young man in 
knickerbockers and hose of deep blue, a white 

14 


210 


ROLAND^ S DAUGHTER, 


flannel shirt with blue lacings, a wide-brimmed 
felt hat, from the back of which floated, for 
further protection from the sun, a parti-hued 
silk kerchief. On one knee he precariously 
maintained a box of water-colors and a small 
glass of water ; various brushes were stuck like 
a clerk’s pens behind his ears ; he had a large 
plaque of drawing-paper in his hand and was 
busy making a picture, whether of the wreck 
with the group in its shade, or of the curve of 
the bay with the red buoy, the covey of small 
boats moored to wait the return of the fishing- 
craft, could not be told. He noticed that he was 
discovered, and lifted his hat; then, stead^dng 
his box of colors, he shouted, 

I’m caught here. I think it must be four or 
five miles back the way I came. I did not know 
of this creek-mouth cutting the shore here. Is 
there any one you would allow to take me over 
in that little boat?” 

“ Persis, you could paddle across,” said Mar- 
gareth. 

Persis was not seven, but she had grown large 
and strong ; she made no ado about clambering 
into the boat and paddling with one oar across 
the twenty yards of water to the other side. 

The artist grasped the bow and pulled the 
little craft against the sand : 

Bravo, little water- woman ! Now I’ll take 
you back to your mamma.” 


UPON THE SANHS. 


211 


‘‘ ‘ Mamma ’ ! That’s Lady. Mammas do not 
have curly rings on their hair and dents in their 
faces like that.” 

Eh ? Why, I thought mammas were the 
most beautiful beings in creation.” 

“What kind have you seen? None of the 
children at school have a mamma as pretty as 
Lady. Are you going to show me the picture 
you made ? Why me ! there we all are by the 
boat. Only I guess you’d better not let Lady 
see that.” 

“And why not? Would she criticise it?” 

“ Eh ? I don’t know that long word. Only 
her eyes got pretty black when she saw you mak- 
ing pictures here. Eufus is dreadful ’fraid of 
Lady when her eyes are black.” 

“I must look out, then. See here! do you 
understand? This is a quarter of a dollar for 
ferry-money,, and you need not mention the 
picture. You understand?” 

“Oh, I know,” said Persis. “Are you going 
to row across ?” 

“Allow me to thank you for the boat,” said 
the stranger, stepping ashore and landing Persis 
with a flying leap. “ May I sit here on the sand 
a little while ? I believe Welby Haven is one 
of the summer resorts where no one stands much 
on ceremony, as every one is understood to be 
eminently respectable. I am Alex Denham, at 
your service, from the first cottage in line on the 


212 


ROLAND'S DAUGHTER. 


cliff. I think I have not had the pleasure of 
meeting you at any of the cottages.’’ 

I do not live in one of them,” said Marga- 
reth, lifting her eyes from her work ; ‘‘ I live in 
the small house on the marsh.” 

Alex Denham lifted himself up to look across 
the level : 

“At least, you have there solitude and the 
surrounding sea. I did not know they took 
boarders out there.” 

“ They do not,” said Margareth, with a flush ; 
“ it is my home.” But with the words came a 
sudden anguish and sinking of soul, realizing 
how little of the real home was there. 

“I beg a million pardons. Hearing these 
children call you ‘ Lady,’ I took you for a 
stranger.” 

“ I am their half sister ; it is their own name 
for me.” 

“A very natural name, surely,” said Denham, 
with a bow. He fixed his eyes on Stella, who 
was lying back against Margareth’s lap, her little 
arms clasped over her head. “ I think I never 
saw so beautiful a child in my life,” he said, ad- 
miringly — “ a true artist’s ideal, a study in gold 
and pearl. I wish I might paint her portrait. 
Would you allow it?” 

“ No ; I think not,” answered Margareth. 

“ Do reconsider that decision. I never had so 
lovely a model of a child’s head. Think! It 


UPON THE SANDS, 


213 


might make my fortune. I am always looking 
for the theme which, properly carried out, will 
secure that splendid end.’’ He said this with 
the easy laugh of one whose fate had always 
been fair and fortune made ready to his hand. 
Then he added more earnestly, I can under- 
stand that a beautiful woman should refuse to 
have her portrait painted for the general public : 
she may prefer to keep her loveliness sacred to 
the shrine of home; but the beauty of a little 
child like that seems to me part of the heritage 
of the world. I think any one would be better 
for looking at such serene innocence, such unruf- 
fled peace. I wonder if there are any storms in 
this world that would disturb that little soul ?” 

‘‘ There certainly will be, if she stays long on 
earth,” said Margareth, looking down on her 
small sister. 

‘‘And — she may not stay. Would you not 
like to have her picture if you should lose her ? 
May I not come over to the house on the marsh 
to-morrow and make a study of her for an hour 
or so ?” 

“ It would be absolutely impossible,” said Mar- 
gareth, firmly. 

“Would it be equally impossible for me to 
have the child at my studio? I have a little 
studio in the tower, if so one may call that 
wooden appendage on the corner of our house.” 

To make acquaintance with the cottage-people 


214 


ROLAND^ S DAUGHTER. 


on any terms was the last thing Margareth de- ■ 
sired. By birth she was of their station in life, ' 
so also by education ; but the sins of her house 
had thrown her far out of the range of fortunate, 
happy, independent people. She said briefly, 
though courteously, 

‘‘ It would be quite as impossible.’’ 

But this youth was nothing if not persistent. 
When his mother had denied him anything, he 
had sought for it again in a variety of forms and 
methods until he achieved success. He climbed 
up on the wreck and surveyed the scene of ac- 
tion. 

Let us agree on neutral ground,” he said, 
finally. ‘‘ Midway between our house and yours 
I see that tree of learning, that foot of Mount 
Parnassus, the public school. It has a deep 
porch guarded by two wings. Will you let this 
energetic little maid bring my sitter over there 
to me to-morrow at ten ? I can paint there very 
well, and the children will be safe. I am sure 
you would be glad of a copy of the picture?” 

Yes, Margareth would be glad of the picture : 
she loved little Stella, and had a presentiment 
that the child would have ‘‘brief life here for 
portion.” 

“ I will send her there at ten,” she said. “ It 
is time to take the children home.” She moved 
toward the boat. 

Alex Denham hastened to lift Archie in. 


UPON THE SANDS, 


215 


“I think I handle oars better than I do a 
paint-brush,” he said ; I wish I might row 
you home. I never have been able to find a 
boat on this crooked channel ; it must be a true 
summer dream to glide along over this dark 
water, with these long rustling grasses almost 
touching you on either side.” 

Persis did not wait for her sister to decline. 

^‘Yes, come in, do!” she cried; ‘‘and while 
you row I will look at your pictures, and I’ll 
paint a little out of your box.” 

The artist stepped into the boat and took up 
the oars, but Margareth put an emphatic stop 
to the artistic intentions of Miss Persis by estab- 
lishing her in the little seat at the bow and re- 
minding her that a certain strip of hemming 
which formed her daily task was not finished. 
Persis took her needle and went to work. 

“ You are very obedient,” said Denham, look- 
ing over his shoulder at the child. 

“ I’m in the habit of ’beying Lady,” said Per- 
sis, sedately. 

He looked at “ Lady.” Lady was established 
on the seat in the stern of the boat, Stella beside 
her, her tiny hands folded in her lap and her 
deep-blue eyes following now the ripples in 
the water sent back from the blunt bow, now 
some flight of sea-birds disturbed among the 
marshes. Archie, on a cushion at Lady’s feet, 
leaned back against her knees. The artist won- 


216 


ROLAND DAUGHTER. 


dered whence those faces of rare, refined beauty 
had come to that desolate slate-hued house among 
the salt grasses. They were not of the native 
seaside population, certainly. The quiet repose 
that marked all but little Persis, the reticence 
and dignity of even these younger ones, seemed 
to have behind them the culture and reserve of 
the city. 

‘‘ What are you thinking of Denham asked 
Archie, not venturing to break the silence which 
Margareth evidently chose. 

Archie was looking toward the sky. 

‘‘ I was thinking of the sky,” said he, and 
who lives there.” 

And who does ?” asked Denham. 

“ God, and — and Cicero,” said Archie. 

‘‘ What on earth do you know about Cicero ?” 
cried Denham. 

‘‘ Lady talks about God,” replied Archie, ‘‘ and 
father talks of Cicero.” 

Evidently, Alex Denham had fallen in with 
an exceptional family. When he reached home, 
he told his mother eagerly about the rarely love- 
ly child whose portrait he would begin the next 
day. 

‘‘ I want you to come down to the school- 
house and see them,” he said. “ The eldest 
child is as quaint as a little Dutch picture, but 
this baby is worthy of Fra Angelico. In fact, 
the little thing is such an unusual study that in 


UPON THE SANDS. 


217 


looking at her I think I failed to realize how 
beautiful the grown-up sister was, and with such 
exceedingly refined manners and sweet voice. I 
really did not do her justice in the tribute of ad- 
miration.” 

‘‘ No doubt that was quite as well,” said his 
mother. 


CHAPTER XII. 


A FISHEB-MAID. 

“ This earth is rich in man and maid 
With fair horizons bound ; 

This whole wide earth of light and shade 
Comes out one perfect round.” 

T hree o’clock on a June morning, a subtle 
promise of day growing across the world. 
The moon, which three hours before had been 
gallant and golden, was now a wan disc of pearl 
sinking slowly out of sight. Coming from every 
direction, but converging upon one place — the 
low black line of the pier — across the wide mead- 
ows dark shadows moved, brushing the dews 
from the tall salt grass that rose and fell in gen- 
tle undulations under the soft north-west wind. 
By turns each dark figure was lit as by a glow- 
worm clinging to its side, where the glimmer of 
dying moon or growing day focused upon each fish- 
er’s dinner-pail. From the shadowy mass of the 
pier black dots detached themselves and crept 
out to the fishing-fleet, that, white and still, rested 
like a flock of snowy swans on the shivering, 
crisping sea. 

From one of the great houses that crowned the 
218 


A FISHBH-MAm 


219 


nearest hill came a lithe youth wearing a close 
velvet cap and a Mexican poncho. He bound- 
ed along as one going, not to accustomed toil, 
but to some new pleasure. His boat shot like 
an arrow from pier to fleet, and he shouted 
down into the cabin of the Pixie, 

“ Hoh, there, Burgham ! Asleep yet ?” 

“You there, Mr. Alex ? Trust you for wak- 
ing a man up,” cried Burgham as Denham made 
fast the small boat and clambered aboard the 
Pixie. 

Then did Burgham emerge from his cabin, and 
with sleeves rolled to his shoulders he plunged 
arms and head into the water as he hung peril- 
ously over the side of the Pixie, and so treated 
himself to “ a swasher,” as he called it ; coming 
forth from which, and after a furious use of brown 
towel, revived and glowing, he surveyed the wak- 
ing world. 

“ If there ain’t the Siren a-shaking of herself 
out!” said Burgham. “I never thought Bo- 
land’s boat would get off this morning, when 
Boland hisself and son was in such a state last 
night. It beats my understanding.” 

“ I’ll sail the Pixie to the shoals,” said Den- 
ham. “ You get your breakfast, Burgham.” 

The fleet was now all awake. Each white 
bird spread a snowy wing ; the water rippled up 
against its breast, and each skimmed away along 
the brightening waters. 


220 


ROLAND^S DAUGHTER. 


Alex had put his poncho and lunch-basket at 
the foot of the mast ; leaning on the tiller, hold- 
ing the main-sheet well in hand, intent on the 
wind, that breathed now gently, now rose in little 
puffs, he perceived one boat gaining on him. 

“ I say, Burgham he called into the cabin ; 
‘Hhat Siren is forging ahead of us.” 

‘‘Ay,” responded Burgham, “the Siren is the 
fastest sailer in the fleet, if so be she is well han- 
dled ; but how they makes it out, after the state 
of last night, passes my understanding.” 

Burgham and son were in the cabin, fully 
under Alex’s eye. Son sat flat on the floor, his 
legs extended, a plate between them, and a goodly 
pile of buttered bread in a pan at his side. Burg- 
ham, on his knees beside a brazier of glowing 
coals, watched the grilling of a bluefish, while 
he also sniffed the aroma of a steaming pot of 
coffee. The fragrance of fish and coffee rose up 
to Alex and mingled with the keen salt air like 
incense to Neptune wafted from some homely 
floating altar. 

“I say, Burgham!” cried Alex, quite in a 
frenzy ; “ it’s a girl sailing the Siren !” 

“ Oh, ay I that explains it : Margareth’s taken 
things in hand.” 

Alex brought the Pixie abreast of the Siren, 
and two or three rods off. Leaning against the 
tiller of the Siren was a Junonian maiden, her 
blue flannel dress opening in a sailor collar at 


A FISHEE-MAID. 


221 


her white throat, golden hair wound round and 
round her head, the main-sheet held well in a 
shapely hand whose snow the salt winds of the 
coast had never been able to roughen or darken, 
her eyes fixed seaward and herself nobly obliv- 
ious of the admiring Alex. 

I say, Burgham said Alex, softly, into the 
cabin ; ‘‘ a perfectly stunning girl !” 

‘‘ Ay,” said Burgham, his mouth full of blue- 
fish ; ‘^old Boland’s daughter. Live, you know, 
in that little house ’way out alone on the west 
ma’ash.” 

‘ Old Boland’s daughter ’ ! She ?” cried 
Alex ; then, ambition waking up, I believe 
I can make the Pixie pass her.” 

A pressure on the tiller, a pull on the main- 
sheet, eye toward a capful of wind that was 
crisping the sea ; then a little light like that of 
the rising morning gleamed in the girl’s grave 
eyes, a small shade of a smile stole over the lovely 
face, and the white hands tightened a bit on 
sheet and tiller, while the Siren shot half a 
length ahead ; and Alex understood not only 
that he would not pass by, but that he was 
likely to lose this beauteous vision altogether 
if he grew too bold. He lifted his cap, and the 
Pixie fell off a little. 

‘‘ She ? Drunken Boland’s daughter ?” he 
whispered, inquiringly, to the cabin. 

‘‘Ay, and sister to Bufus, just as drunken as 


222 


BOLAND^ S DAUGHTER. 


Eoland. Something born in them two’s veins. 
But Boland’s no common fish. They do say 
that he was a gentleman and college-bred and 
can talk Latin yet, sir. I don’t doubt it; for 
when he has had a little too much — as happens 
often — I’ve heard him roll out words that 
sounded full and grand as the sweep of waters. 
His first wife — people say the mother of these 
two — was a lady and died heartbroke. He’s mar- 
ried again, to a plain woman ; she lives heart- 
broke with a brood of little ones. Margareth’s 
the main-stay ; though, as for calling her by her 
namey there’s not a man along the coast would 
get out so much as the M of it to her face.” 

In that case,” said Alex, “ we should not 
discuss her.” 

The Siren and the Pixie anchored near to- 
gether, and fishing began. 

‘‘ From the dives into yon cabin,” said Burg- 
ham, “I conclude Eoland has got his rum 
aboard.” 

Son and Alex were pulling in bluefish at 
either side of the boat; Burgham, seated near 
Alex’s feet, was cleaning fish. 

I thought you had prohibition along here ?” 
said Denham. 

‘‘ So we have, but, so long as within a hundred 
miles of us there’s license, people among us get 
liquor and sell it. He buys of a woman named 
Mehan ; she sells on the sly.” 


A FISHEB-MAID. 


223 


“Well, -why isn’t she prosecuted?” 

“ Oh, she^s had her ’rested twice,” pointing 
with his thumb toward Margareth. 

“ And didn’t that stop it ?” 

“No. First time the magistrate happened to 
be her landlord. The Mehan pays good rent; 
he considered the charge not proven. Next 
time witnesses against Mehan were shown to be 
a lying lot, and a doctor — her next neighbor — 
testified his place overlooked hers and he never 
see no signs of selling. But the doctor, as it 
happened, bought whisky by the bar’l to use in 
his practice ; an’ his practice was to sell to the 
Mehan.” 

“ So prohibition, it seems, is worth nothing ?” 

“Not so fast, Mr. Denham ; it’s worth consid’- 
able. It has kep’ him sober three months at a 
time. Now, what I draw from them premises is 
these conclusions : Prohibition is what we want ; 
local prohibition is worth something, but general 
prohibition is what we has to have, to be effectual. 
You see, sir, I may keep my hands well an’ my 
lungs sound ; but if so be I has rheumatiz in my 
feet, I’m an uncomfortable man. The ’postle 
deals that out quite handsome about if one 
member suffer all the members suffer with it; 
which might be a prohibition parable. In my 
view, if them two men don’t mind their fishin’ bet- 
ter, there’ll be some kind of prohibition passed in 
that boat by Miss Margareth in a very little time.” 


224 


ROLAND'S DAUGHTER. 


Alex, catching numerous bluefish, had noticed 
that Margareth was remonstrant ; now he saw 
her drop her lines, step swiftly into the cabin, 
come out with a jug and fling it into the sea. 

A little hum of laughter and applause went 
round the moored fleet. It seemed to hurt the 
girl, for she flushed crimson and her eyes fell. 
Her father sprang toward her with a loud oath 
and upbraiding, while her brother, with a face 
of fury, caught up a pair of leaden oarlocks 
and was aiming them at her head. Like a flash 
Alex seized an oar and whirled it round, pre- 
pared to strike down the miscreant’s arm, when 
the senior Roland suddenly changed sides, took 
his son by the throat, flung the oarlocks into the 
cabin, and said fiercely, 

“ Touch her if you dare !” 

The boats relapsed into quiet, except for the 
plunging and struggling of the newly-caught 
fish. Margareth kept her back carefully turned 
to the Pixie; Alex believed that the girl was 
crying as she fished. For his life he could not 
help watching her. He compared her with all 
other women he had seen, and found her the 
most fair. He thought how changed her life 
might be if taken from that lonely cabin in the 
salt marshes and placed honorably at his mother’s 
right hand. He wondered how the world would 
go if in these days an enamored youth could go 
to his parents and say, as did Samson, ‘‘ Get this 


A FISHER-MAID. 


225 


woman to my wife, for she pleaseth me.” And 
yet no doubt the parents might make the old- 
time answer : ‘‘ Is there never a woman among 
all thy people, that thou goest to take a wife of 
the Philistines ?” 

Alex sighed. He considered his mother on 
the one hand, old drunken Roland on the other, 
his sister and this inebriated Rufus Roland 
brought together by a family tie. Never, 
never ! Yet Alex could not take his gaze from 
fair Margareth, nor go home until the fish were 
sold at the wharf, the fleet rested once more for 
the night, each white bird with folded wing, and 
Margareth had gone over the causeway to that 
cabin set on the one firm spot in that oozy, pal- 
pitating marsh. 

After that, Burgham said he ‘‘never did see 
a young gentleman work so hard for pleasure as 
Mr. Denham,” and he noticed, too, that the Pixie 
and the Siren kept singularly close together. 

Alex grew restless and took a fancy to walks 
after nightfall, and then that gleam from the salt 
marsh drew him on, on, over the causeway, until 
through the curtainless window he could see 
Margareth, after the day’s toil, sitting in the 
low rocker by the driftwood fire on the wide 
hearth, always a child on her knee and one or 
two hanging about her chair, a gentle and wom- 
anly presence, a norm of peace in that desolate 
dwelling — Margareth the still storm-centre there, 

15 


226 


ROLAND'S DAUGHTER. 


however the tired stepmother clattered at her 
work in one corner or Roland and Rufus wran- 
gled or shouted or mended nets and lines in 
another. 

“It seems to me,” said Burgham to Alex, 

“ that she’s sort of driven to the wall and mak- 
ing her last stand. This going out to the fishing 
is something new. I never see a girl that could 
do everything like this one.” 

He was looking at the Siren dropping anchor 
and at Margareth pulling on a pair of heavy 
gloves preparatory to fishing. 

“ It seems to me the last thing a young lady 
would care to do,” responded Alex, “ after a try 
of a day or two at it, for fun.” i 

“ Not much fun in her life,” said Burgham. 

“ However, you see, there’s one thing she won’t | 
do, and that’s clean the fish; Rufe does that. ' 
Any ways, I s’pose they wouldn’t let her, for, i 
bad as they are, they’re proud of her.” 

“ They ought to be. I don’t see how it has 
all come about.” 

“ I asked my second cousin, and she explained 
some things to me, seeing I noticed you was 
interested.” 

“ I’m not interested at all, except as an artist 
and as a temperance-man,” said Alex, virtuously. 

“ It was along of the temperance I asked,” 
said Burgham, stolidly. “She tells me Rufe 
and Miss Margareth are only half brother and 


A FISJIEB-MAII). 


227 


sister. Roland used to be a Latin professor. 
Hardly believe it, would you? Well, after one 
fall and another, they finally fied here because 
it was prohibition, and Rufe had a little money 
and bought out a fisherman who was going away. 
Not at all a bad fellow, that Rufus. He makes 
the last stepmother and her little ones welcome 
to all he has, and he’s powerful fond of his 
sister.” 

I should say so ! Going to throw an oar- 
lock at her head !” 

‘‘That was because he was in liquor and her 
eye was off him ; usually, she rules him with a 
look. And Roland has not been in the habit of 
being loud in his drink. But these things are 
sure to get worse as they go on. Last year was 
a bad year for fishing ; we none of us made 
much. This year the Rolands had a new sail 
to get, and some new tackle, so that took up all 
their cash in hand ; and the two have taken more 
to drink of late, having found some of Satan’s 
own agents to help ’em to their ruin. On ac- 
count of the girl, they don’t bring the drink 
home, and, instead, they put it in the boat, and 
in place of fishing they drank themselves drunk ; 
and days went by without their bringing home 
more fish than to do the family. That’s why 
she came out — to keep ’em up to the mark and 
save the little ones from starving. She had the 
school one winter, but -plenty ’round here want 


228 


ROLAND^ S DAUGHTER. 


it — it’s a fair berth — and a stranger with such 
relations rambling in on her didn’t have much 
chance. The stepmother is a fretty creature, 
always whining what a pity it was she married 
this Mr. Roland. Seems to me, if any one’s got 
a right to fret, it is the girl, who isn’t any wise 
responsible for the sins of her father and brother 
or for her stepmother’s lot of children ; and she 
is just spending her life on ’em. This is a queer 
world, Mr. Alex ; and I vow I never see a finer 
shoal of fish than the one that’s coming this way. 
Look at ’em ! See the tails ! See the foam 
flyin’ ! Whoop, there !” 

From that day Alex Denham went no more 
with the fishing-fleet. He saw that Burgham 
noticed his interest in Margareth, and he felt 
that it was unfair that the girl and her sorrows 
should be discussed in a way which she would 
resent if she knew of it, although every word 
was one of sympathy and respect. 

‘‘ Alex,” said his mother to him one evening 
as he came up the porch-steps, it seems to me 
you walk a great deal along that causeway. You 
have just come from there.” 

I know it, mother ; that girl’s face and story 
haunt me. Why cannot all girls live in peace as 
my sister does? Now, there is a girl just as 
young, as sensitive, as beautiful, making the 
hardest kind of a fight for mere existence and 
buried out there in a hut on a swamp.” 


A FISHBB-MAID. 


229 


‘‘And it will not make the fight any easier if 
a young stranger begins to haunt the purlieus of 
her home/’ 

“ I only go after nightfall, when no one sees 
me,” pleaded Alex. “ It makes such a picture ! 
It is a rough room with great beams overhead, 
and a wide chimney. They burn driftwood, and 
usually the fire makes the only light in the in- 
terior. The salt soaked into the fuel makes the 
flames send out shoots of green and blue. There, 
right in the circle of light, sits that elder sister, 
and on her knee that angel of a child, and at 
her feet the poor little crooked boy with the 
lovely face, and, brisk and sturdy, near by, that 
little Dutch maid, Persis, forming the link be- 
tween this fine beauty of the group and the 
ordinary, careworn, discontented face of the 
housewife, who works in a slow, discouraged 
way at whatever she is doing. Even the two 
men are studies. The brother is a young Her- 
cules, busy sometimes at lines, nets or oars, some- 
times lying his length on the floor with his hands 
under his head. And the father, the ex-profes- 
sor, is very careful to clean himself up when he 
comes home, and I’ve seen him straighten him- 
self and march about the room with his hand on 
his hip and the airs of a lord.” 

“And would they, in their last retreat from 
the world and the shame heaped upon them — 
would they be glad to know that a stranger, 


230 


ROLAND ’S DA UGHTER. 


with motives artistic or otherwise, stood without 
with the entire domestic scene under his eye 

Alex flushed hotly in the covering twilight : 
No ! No 

“ Then, as you are a gentleman, your own con- 
viction precludes your going there again/’ 

You make things uncommon hard for a man 
sometimes, mother/’ 

‘‘Or do I set you face to face with honor, 
which demands a sacriflce ? Noblesse ohliqe, mon 

jiur 

“ But it is so pitiful, mother ! and the happy 
should help the unhappy, the strong the weak. 
Suppose you make some errand there. You 
always know what to do for people.” 

“ The difficulty here is that the chief want of 
these sufierers is to be let alone. However, I 
can try it.” 

Mrs. Denham made the venture, and found 
only Harriet at home. 

“ Oh yes, Harriet could do some sewing — sup- 
posed she would be glad to have it; though 
whatever was done never amounted to bettering 
things. But Persis must go for and take the 
work, and any directions must be in writing ; 
for one thing Margareth is set on is to have no 
one coming here, man, woman or child. I’m 
sorry — it is hard on me — but there is no con- 
tradicting Margareth: she is the one last hope 
of us all.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 


THE COTTAGE ON THE MARSHES. 

“ Calm and still light on yon great plain, 

That sweeps, with all its autumn-bowers, 

And crowding farms, and lessening towers. 

To mingle with the bounding main.” 

C UT oflP from the joys of the fishing-banks 
and prohibited from evening walks along 
the black channels of the marshes, Alex Den- 
ham felt that life was empty and unmeaning. 
His sister laughed at him, and opined that he 
wanted a new business and was training for the 
part of Hamlet. His mother thought he really 
should be more industrious. He was a restless 
youth, and compensated himself for his priva- 
tions by taking long walks about the coun- 
try. 

Coming home from one of these on an after- 
noon, he was passing the neat white cottage of 
a widow named Mrs. Falconer when he heard a 
small, clear voice that sounded familiar, and dis- 
covered Archie Roland playing with corn-cobs 
on the end of Mrs. Falconer’s piazza. A great 
desire to build cob-houses filled Alex’s soul ; he 
presented himself boldly to Archie as a mate, 

231 


232 


ROLAND^S DAUGHTER. 


and, sitting on the edge of the porch, constructed 
such splendid towers and palaces, such houses 
and barns, that Archie burst into unaccustomed 

joy- 

“ Who brought you here ?” asked Alex of 
Archie. 

“ Persis did, but Lady is coming after me 
when the boat gets in. I often come here to 
play cobs.’’ 

Alex resolved to remain in Archie’s society 
until the boat got in, if it took all night. 

Presently, Mrs. Falconer came out with a 
glass of milk for her small guest, and was much 
surprised to see a second visitor, who treated her 
to an elaborate bow 

“Mrs. Falconer, I think?” 

“Yes, and I’m sure this is Mr. Denham, from 
the Bluff? Do come in, sir.” 

“ Thanks ! I am enjoying my cob-houses 
very much with our little friend, but I am con- 
sumed with envy of his glass of milk. I have 
walked to Gray Point and back : won’t you treat 
me also to a glass of milk ?” 

Mrs. Falconer was duly flattered by this appeal 
to her hospitality : 

“ But do come in, sir, and take it in my cool 
sitting-room, resting in my big chair. To Gray 
Point and back ! I declare ! What won’t you 
young gentlemen do for amusement?” 

Alex concluded that he had better be resting 


THE COTTAGE ON THE MARSHES. 233 

hidden in Mrs. Falconer’s sitting-room than 
openly sitting on the porch when Archie should 
be called for. He accepted the big chair and 
the milk — for, like other young men, he was not 
averse to being waited on — and then, taking 
Archie on his knee, he began to tell him mar- 
velous tales of things that he was supposed to 
have seen, until Archie’s face was a constant 
wrinkle of laughter and Mrs. Falconer had to 
pause to get her breath. 

“ Well, indeed !” cried Mrs. Falconer ; there’ll 
be no lack of laughing and good spirits where 
you may be, sir. I often note the young sum- 
mer-people from the cottages going by here on 
their pleasurings, laughing so gay. Why, they’ll 
go ride all day, jouncing about in a heavy 
wagon, making the most fun of it, and coming 
back covered with dust or drenched with rain.” 

They call that pleasure, you know, Mrs. 
Falconer.” 

“Law, yes! though where the pleasure is I 
can’t see. I don’t notice you along with them 
much of late?” 

“ The pleasure is in the doing what is unusual, 
I suppose. No, I have not been with them late- 
ly ; I’ve been elsewhere. Also, I got rather sick 
of the whole subject of amusement when I felt 
how little of it there is in some people’s lives — 
the very ones, too, that one would consider most 
worthy of happiness.” 


234 


ROLAND^S DAUGHTER. 


‘‘ Ah, yes ! And youVe been fishing a good 
bit. Mr. Burgham was telling me how you went 
out constant, and then stopped.’’ 

“It was time I stopped, if Burgham’s been 
talking,” said Alex, testily. 

“ Oh, not that, by any means ! Mr. Burgham’s 
a very good man, and a prudent, and a kind-feel- 
ing. Besides, he wouldn’t talk to any one but 
me : I’m his second cousin. And then he knows 
I set by Miss Boland as if she were my daugh- 
ter.” 

The temptation to talk of Margareth was not 
to be resisted : 

“Very few people could boast of such a 
daughter.” 

“ She has done a daughter’s part by me, at all 
events,” said Mrs. Falconer, getting out her knit- 
ting and arranging herself for a talk. “ One 
wouldn’t quite know how she could find time 
for anything outside of her own home. — Archie, 
my man, don’t you want to go to the hen-house 
and see if you can find an egg in the yellow 
hen’s nest? If you get one, you shall have it 
for supper.” 

“ I want the egg,” spoke up Archie, “ but I 
don’t like to get it. The hen don’t want me to 
have it ; she cries like anything when I take the 
eggs away.” 

“ Oh no !” said Alex, quickly, zealous to get 
rid of Archie, who was evidently in the way of 


THE COTTAGE ON THE MARSHES. 


235 


Mistress Falconer’s revelations. ‘^You are all 
wrong there, Archie; she’s not crying, she’s 
laughing.” 

‘ Laughing ’ ? Sure ?” queried Archie. 

Yes, indeed ! That’s the way hens laugh. 
I’ve been acquainted with hens all my life. She 
laughs loud because she likes you to get the 
eggs.” 

“ Then I’ll go,” said Archie, trotting off. 

‘‘ If you don’t beat all !” cried Mrs. Falconer 
to her guest. Well, he’s gone. I wouldn’t 
mention his mother before him. She works 
hard and is a good-enough woman in her way, 
but a kind of selfish heathen, after all. Those 
children would never have known a text or a 
hymn or a prayer if it had not been for Miss 
Margareth. She’s just as burdened for their 
good as if they were her own children. Then 
her brother Rufus is only a half brother to her, 
but full sister could not be better to him. She 
taught our school here one winter, and a pity 
she couldn’t have kept it; the children never 
learned so much in a year, and they got more 
sensible and better manners, and she taught them 
so many things about birds and flowers and bugs 
and shells and fishes. Why, it was amazing how 
they learned about the habits of things, and to 
call things by their right names. Miss Roland’s 
a very fine-eddicated young lady: she reads 
French books as easy as she does English ; and 


236 


BOLAND’S DAUGHTER. 


she’s a great reader, too, and gets books wher- 
ever she can. I’ve noticed a vast difference in 
this world between people in the matter of mak- 
ing the best of their lot in Life. If some people 
cannot have all they want and the best of every- 
thing, they set themselves down all in a heap 
and don’t try for anything. There’s others that 
make the most of what they have and don’t 
waste strength in fretting for what they haven’t 
got. They’ll make a gaining cause out of a los- 
ing cause. Now, my husband was a soldier, and 
he read a heap of books about military men ; and 
he used to say that some of the greatest generals 
were those that knew how to make the best of a 
defeat. He named William of Orange among 
that kind, and said he’d make as much out of a 
defeat as another would out of a victory. Some- 
times it is so in spiritual things also. 

“ But I’m a great hand to run on ; I meant to 
tell you how good Miss Boland was to me. She 
is the best nurse I ever saw in my life. You 
needn’t tell me Florence Nightingale is better, 
for I wouldn’t believe it. I had a fever and 
a sore throat over a year ago. The doctor 
said it was catching, and people here thought it 
was ; there was a good bit of it going about. I 
thought I wasn’t going to get anybody to nurse 
me, and maybe I would not, only in came Miss 
Boland and volunteered. She said she had no 
fear of infection, and in her opinion those with- 


THE COTTAGE ON THE MARSHES. 237 

out fear were safe. Also, she said catching dis- 
eases depended much on the care of the sick- 
room, and she knew how to take right care. 
Her stepmother let Mrs. Wagstaif into the whole 
story, and she told me. The stepmother didn’t 
want her to come — not for fear Miss Koland 
would catch the sickness, but lest she’d bring 
it home ; so Miss Holand said she’d stay right 
here till danger was over. Her brother said 
neighbors was neighbors and ought to help each 
other, and her father said an old woman like me 
ought not to be abandoned ; but her stepmother 
made a fuss at being left alone to do everything. 
And — would you believe it? — in two days she 
sent that little Archie and his bits of duds here, 
saying he cried all the time for ‘ Lady ’ and she 
couldn’t do for so many. I don’t accuse her of 
wishing he’d catch the sickness. Any ways, 
none of them did, and they lived here with me 
for three weeks, and I came to love them like 
my own. It was not done for money or aught 
like that — never a penny. It was just that good 
Christian spirit that makes its possessor love 
others as if they were brethren.” 

It was very beautiful and courageous,” said 
Alex, warmly. 

‘‘ ‘ Courageous ’ ! I should say so ! But Mar- 
gareth Boland has that high spirit she don’t 
know how to be afraid of anything. I never 
see any one with such good solid courage as she 


238 


ROLAND^ S DAUGHTER. 


has. They say a conscience void of offence casts 
out fear, and I fancy that^s her case.’’ 

I should imagine that such a person as her 
stepmother must be rather wearing on her,” sug- 
gested Alex. 

‘‘ She don’t stop to think whether she’s wear- 
ing or not ; she just takes her as she is, so long 
as she’s got her. That is Margareth Roland’s 
style. The family would all go to pieces if she 
did not stand by and manage for them. Such 
a housekeeper I never did see, making the best ■ 
of everything all in such a calm, quiet way. 
And, as for economy, I just wish she’d go give 
a few lessons to the county commissioner and ^ 
the State legislature, that they do say is wasting 
funds shameful and piling up the taxes. She’d 1 
tell ’em what economy is.” 

“ Lady ! Lady !” piped a small voice out- \ 
side ; “I’ve got an egg in each pocket. Come in, ^ 
Lady I” 

The next minute, led by Archie, who held 
by her dress, Margareth appeared in the door- 
way. She had on a blue dress of some thinner 
stuff than her flannel flshing-gown, and carried 
swinging by its strings her wide straw hat, which 
she had removed when she reached the porch. 
Perhaps, if she had known that Mrs. Falconer 
had a guest, she might have taken Archie home 
from the gate without coming in ; as it was, she 
sat down in the chair Alex had the happiness of 


THE COTTAGE ON THE MARSHES. 239 

vacating in her favor, and in a few minutes they 
fell into a lively talk. An hour passed like a 
minute to Alex; he could say, 

“ When she made pause I knew not for delight, 

Because with sudden motion from the ground 
She raised her lovely eyes, and filled with light 
The interval of sound.” 

When she was talking with Mrs. Falconer, he 
occupied his mind with telling over to himself 
those virtues which the old lady had declared 
the girl to possess — education, courage, common 
sense, piety, self-sacrifice, cheerfulness, economy, 
nursing, housekeeping. What a galaxy of gifts 
and graces ! Was ever any one so graced before? 
Alex was sure not. 

‘‘ Come, Archie,’’ said Margareth ; this is 
too long a visit. I must take you home.” 

Alex rose as promptly as if she had summoned 
him. When they reached the gate, he swung 
Archie up on his broad shoulder: 

‘‘ Now, my little man, you shall have a ride 
home. Some one has said that little people on 
giants’ shoulders see farther than giants ; so now, 
small as you are, your eyes are higher than mine 
can go.” 

“ It was old Fuller who said that,” remarked 
Margareth. In his Church History ^ 

So it was,” said Alex. And so you have 
read old Fuller?” 

“Some of his works — his Worthies and his 


240 


ROLAND'S DAUGHTER. 


History. I like that quaint old style of read- 
ing/’ 

So do I, but the taste is not common. I often 
read it for subjects — themes for pictures. If 
you love reading, you must often be at a loss 
here. Now, I have a whole armful of things 
we have finished with — very good things, too, if 
they are Seasides, some of them. There’s Lou- 
ise of Prussia, and The Marriages of the Bona- 
partes, and Jane Carlyle’s Letters, and Carlyle’s 
Reminiscences, and Green’s History of the English 
People, and Macaulay’s Lays. I’ll send them 
over to you if you will let me.” 

Margareth was about to decline and murmur 
something about the public library, but the 
truth was she had not had a book for a fortnight 
and her mind was in a starving state ; so her eyes 
fiashed with pleasure at the suggested feast. 

Persis shall meet me at the schoolhouse to- 
morrow morning and get them,” said the wary 
Alex. — ‘‘ Hey, Persis ! will you keep another 
tryst with me?” 

Persis was a shrewd infant. She generally 
managed to arrive whenever she saw Alex, be- 
cause he contrived errands for her which resulted 
in a plentiful supply of quarter dollars in her 
little pockets. Of this store she was discreetly 
reticent to Margareth, but she confided it to Har- 
riet and out of it procured the desire of her heart, 
gay hair-ribbons and striped stockings. Miss 


THE COTTAGE ON THE MARSHES, 241 

Persis, therefore, was not likely to meet Alex’s 
proposals less than halfway ; she responded 
promptly : 

I’ll be there by six o’clock.” 

“ Better make it ten,” said Alex, taken some- 
what aback. 

Alex sometimes boasted about being a swift 
walker : his pedestrian gifts would not have been 
guessed from his method of getting over ground 
with Archie on his shoulder and Margareth at 
his side. He talked about flowers and botany, 
and strove very hard to get an invitation to go 
out in the marsh-channel in the little boat. He 
sat on the fence where the causeway opened 
through the Wagstaff farm, and repeated the 
whole of Bead’s poem of “ Drifting.” That led 
to talk about foreign lands, and he told her how 
he had seen Naples and climbed Vesuvius. On 
this he might have enlarged indefinitely had not 
the inopportune Persis declared that she heard 
the supper-bell and, seeing no further prospect 
of subsidies, rushed ofP to get her tea. The 
others came up the causeway more deliberately. 
Halfway, Margareth stopped : 

Will you give me Archie now, Mr. Denham? 
He can walk from here.” 

May I not carry him farther ?” 

If you please, no.” 

‘^And may I come to-morrow and bring you 
some flowers?” 


16 


242 


BOLAND^S DAUGHTER. 


“ No/’ said Margareth, looking down ; “ it is 
impossible. My life must be more shut up than 
that of other people, Mr. Denham, and I would 
rather no one came out here.” 

Alex placed Archie upon the ground and, lifting 
his hat, walked swiftly away. He was so foolish 
as to feel cross. Some people whose lives have 
gone easily are apt to feel cross when they can- 
not have their own way. 

Meanwhile, Margareth went home swinging 
her hat by the strings, the cool evening air play- 
ing through the silken rings of hair on her brow. 
She had had a very pleasant afternoon ; it was 
charming to find some one to talk with — some 
one who had read the books she loved, who en- 
joyed scenery, poetry and flowers, who had trav- 
eled and observed. She idly wondered what it 
must be like to lead a life easy and free of care 
like that of Alex Denham. Youth must needs 
have its relaxations; even in mature age, the 
bow, as Horace sings, cannot be always bent 
even by the god Apollo. Hard as was her lot, 
it was only fair to take a change where she found 
it and give an hour to the companionship of 
youth, high spirits and hope. Still, such enter- 
tainment might be dangerous, and she would not 
indulge in it again. God had set her a task and 
appointed her a lot in life, and she must not 
make it, by painful contrasts, more irksome than 
need be. She led Archie into the house. Per- 


THE COTTAGE ON THE MARSHES. 


243 


sis had given a false alarm : the fishers were not 
up from the beach, and supper was not ready. 

Harriet stopped her work now and again and 
looked cautiously but closely at Margareth, who 
sat down by the window and picked up little 
Stella. Finally, Harriet went up to her and 
began in a hurried, complaining tone: 

‘‘ I see how it is, Margareth ! Young people 
are always looking out for their own chance in 
life. Not that I ever had. mine, though every- 
body else does. I see how it is ; I saw you talk- 
ing on the causeway with that young gentleman. 
You wouldn’t let him come to the house; I don’t 
wonder. No doubt you are ashamed of the place 
and of me. But it doesn’t make it any better if 
you see him in other places. What shall we do 
if you forsake us ? Of course you’d never look 
at any of us again if you made a new home for 
yourself — at least, you’d forget me and mine: 
we’re nothing to you. But it is not fair to leave 
us alone ; my children will starve, and I never 
can please your father, and, as for Bufus, you 
know I’m as ’fraid as death of him ; and if you 
go off and leave him to himself, he’ll commit 
murder some day.” 

‘'Hush, Harriet,” said Margareth, quietly; 
“don’t say any more. I do not intend to 
leave you.” 

“You will if you get a chance; any one 
would.” 


244 


ROLAND’S DAUGHTER. 


“Not if that one had a sense of duty. My 
duty is plain.” 

“And you really will not forsake us and leave 
me alone to do for your father and Rufus ?” 

“ I really will not.” 

Harriet went back to her cooking. She had 
heard the words of Margareth, but could scarcely 
believe them. The weak nature could not com- 
prehend the strong one. The strong nature un- 
derstood the weak one, but compassionated it. 
Margareth never thought to upbraid or condemn 
Harriet for her feebleness. Her experience of 
life had taught her not to look for very many 
noble qualities in souls which were not reinforced 
by spiritual strength. 

That little cottage on the marshes was destined 
to be the scene of some curious developments of 
human nature. 


CHAPTEE XIY. 


IN THE FALLING BAIN 

“And one, a full-fed river, winding slow 
By herds upon an endless plain, 

The ragged rims of thunder bending low, 

With shadow-streaks of rain.” 

T here came a three days’ south-west storm 
in the last of July which kept the fishing- 
fleet at its anchorage. The night after it ended 
Alex took his fated walk along the causeway. 
When he reached the point where the causeway 
bridged the channel, he saw, in the gray twi- 
light, Margareth standing in the small, rotten, 
cranky punt, an oar in her hand, preparing to 
cast off. 

Miss Roland ! Miss Margareth ! Where 
are you going, alone?” 

‘‘ Father is off ; he wandered somewhere away 
on the marsh hours ago. I just found it out. 
He was angry at Rufus. And see ! it is a flood- 
tide; the marshes will be all under water. I 
must find him. He will be drowned.” 

‘‘You are not going alone,” cried Alex, leap- 
ing to her side. 

“ Two pair of oars will be better than one,” 

245 


246 


ROLAND'S DAUGHTER. 


answered Margareth, setting her teeth. “ I know 
where to go ; I’ll call the way, Mr. Denham.” 

Two pair of oars struck the water with a will. 
The moon hung low above the black flood that 
had rolled far inland over the marshes and was 
crawling and lapping up and down among the 
sedge. 

‘‘ Margareth,” cried Alex, this is a frightful 
life for a girl like you. Leave it all ; shake free 
of it ; choose a lot for yourself.” 

Women cannot choose,” replied Margareth ; 
‘things are chosen for them. But I wish — I j 
often wish — I could know,” she cried, angrily, 
whether my lot is chosen for me by God or by 
Satan. It must be the will of God that I work 
for and protect my own, and yet, if it were not 
for that demon of rum, I should have no such 
tasks as this of to-night.” 

‘‘ Consider, Margareth,” said Alex ; all this 
might be changed. You could fly from the 
shadow of that curse and find a home of peace, 
of beauty, of comfort — of all that you would 
love. You could — ” | 

‘‘Mr. Denham,” said Margareth, “will you • 
understand that such words only make bitterer 
to me a lot that I can never leave nor change ? 
You remember the woman in the Bible who ] 
said, ‘ I dwell among my own people ’ ? I shall 
always dwell with mine because they need me. 

It is only left for me to do my duty.” 


IN THE FALLING BAIN. 


247 


On, on, over the uprising, weltering blackness. 

“ Father ! father ! father !” Margareth’s call 
rang through the night. 

Ho ! Ho-o-o ! Roland ! Roland ! Hallo 
shouted Denham above the flooded marshes. 
Suddenly catching, over his shoulder, a sight 
of that sad and most lovely face, he cried, 
‘‘Margareth, how can you endure it?’’ 

Only,” said Margareth, by thinking how 
small a part is time of eternity.” 

Time ! eternity ! To these two still struggling 
in time bore down a hulk just wrecked upon the 
eternal shore. A dull thud at the bows, and 
Margareth was on her knees grasping the breast 
of the old fishing-coat, and so holding her fa- 
ther’s dead face above the black water. Denham 
was kneeling by her on the instant, but it was 
impossible to get that heavy inert body into the 
crazy boat ; the only thing was to fasten it by a 
rope to the bows, so that the head and chest 
should be above water, and thus they worked 
back to the causeway. Denham rowed alone; 
Margareth sat with her face on her knees. At 
the causeway he summoned help, and soon the 
fisher-folk gathered to their assistance. Then 
Margareth spoke with a pitiful decision : 

‘‘Mr. Denham, will you clearly understand 
me ? Do not come near me nor help me in any 
way ; I cannot bear it. These others will do all 
I want.” 


248 


ROLAND'S DAUGHTER. 


Thus shut out from offering help, or even 
sympathy, all the next day, which was raw and 
misty, Denham paced the veranda of his home 
and kept the house on the marsh in sight with a 
glass. By three o’clock he saw, from the gather- 
ing of a few men and the arrival of a low cart, 
that the burial must be about to take place. Cross- 
ing the hill, he stood in the shadow of the coun- 
try schoolhouse, which the doleful funeral cortege 
must pass. 

It came. Oh, most pathetic poverty ! Wrin- 
kled, gray, limping, shabby, profoundly sad, 
w^alked first a superannuated minister of the 
neighborhood, a man who out of suffering had 
gathered boundless store of sympathy — his sole 
wealth, but wealth that he could carry out of 
this world ; then a lean, one-eyed horse dragging 
the old blue cart. The horse now hesitated and 
stood almost still, and anon lunged forward in a 
series of plunges, threatening to fall upon and 
overset the aged minister. On the cart was the 
coffin, covered with a damp black pall. Then 
came Margareth, walking all alone, suggesting to 
Alex that her brother was too intoxicated to come 
out and unsafe for the stepmother to leave alone 
with the children. Then came five or six neigh- 
bors in their oilskin coats and caps. Thus the 
procession, going half a mile inland to the lone- 
some free burial-ground. 

Denham followed afar off. He marked Mar- 


IN THE FALLING RAIN 


249 


gareth, in her blue-flannel dress and old blue 
cloak, following her dead, and be felt a strange 
shame of his own warm and handsome garments, 
while he dared not go forward and even wrap 
her in his poncho to protect her from the mist 
that was settling and drizzling like rain. Fol- 
lowing thus, now on to the open grave, and the 
pine coffin is let down ; the old minister utters a 
prayer — for patience, perhaps — while the mist 
changes to rain and drips over Margareth’s 
golden hair. The grave is filled in, and the 
girl, slowly turning, looks her lowly friends in 
the face and says clearly, 

“ I thank you that you have helped me to 
bury my dead out of my sight.” 

The men bowed their heads, and then turned 
away. 

The little gray preacher took Margareth’s 
hand reverently in his : 

My daughter, yours is a grievous lot, but ask 
for grace to say, ‘ Though he slay me, yet will I 
trust him.’ ” 

Yes,” said Margareth, '' I must say that. If 
I fail of faith in God’s love, what have I left ?” 

“ Parson,” said the owner of the cart, ‘‘ the 
weather’s growin’ worse, and your lame leg don’t 
git you over the ground very fast. S’pose I give 
you a lift home on the cart ?” 

So the shabby little man rode off in the cart 
that had brought the coffin, and Margareth re- 


250 


ROLAND'S DAUGHTER. 


traced her way alone across the fields with the 
saturated grass bending low. 

At the causeway, Denham, who was still fol- 
lowing, seized her desperately by the cloak : 

“ Margareth, must this be ? Can I never help 
you 

‘‘Mr. Denham,’^ replied Margareth, her eyes 
on the ground, “ once for all I beg you to let me 
go on my way unhindered, for between you and me 
there is a great gulf fixed, and it is my part to 
go on and do my duty as I find it waiting for me 
day by day.’’ 

So she hurried from him into the cabin, where 
by the fire sat the new-made widow, weeping not 
so much from bereavement as from miserable 
discouragement. 

“ Margareth, she cried, desperately, “ I know 
it all, I see it all ! I see how that young man 
haunts ybu. You will be leaving us. No won- 
der ! You can live like a lady, like your moth- 
er’s kin, and we — I and these poor little children 
— we have no claim on you.” 

“ You have this claim on me — that you need 
me,” said Margareth, gently, kneeling on the 
hearth to warm her chill hands and dry her wet 
hair before the blaze. She took out the pins, and 
the golden fiood rolled over her shoulders and 
glittered in the fiame-light. 

Archie stole up to her and began to stroke the 
silken softness. Stella, slipping between her sis- 


IN THE FALLING BAIN. 


251 


ter^s arms, leaned against her breast and patted 
her face with her little dimpled hands. Persis 
hung up the wet cloak and looked for dry shoes. 
There was consolation in the ministrations of 
these children for whom she was making a sac- 
rifice of her present and her future. 

Denham, meanwhile, went home to his mother 
and told her all his story. 

Sometimes,’’ he said, ‘‘ I really hate myself 
that I do not go and fairly force her away from 
those dismal surroundings into a fitter life.” 

How do you know that it would be fitter ?” 
said his mother. ‘‘ Is anything ever more fit than 
that which God has chosen for us ? Is anything 
higher than duty, nobler than self-sacrifice ?” 

That may be her side of it,” answered Alex ; 
but when I look at mine, it seems that perhaps 
I am held back by social pride, by dislike of her 
surroundings. I feel like the disgraceful old 
fellow in PilgrirnJs Progress who liked Mercy, 
but not ‘ her conditions.’ What a cruel contrast 
it seems ! — on our side all safety, luxury, peace ; 
on hers, that drunken brother, the faded step- 
mother, that brood of impoverished little ones.” 

Be sure, my son, that no woman was ever 
happier for marriage when to marry she deserted 
a manifest duty. No man is better off for pos- 
sessing a wife whom he has persuaded for his 
sake to abandon duty and natural ties. If we 
would look at things squarely, we should not 


252 


ROLAND^S DAUGHTER. 


often find duties conflicting. Then, too, your 
feelings may be all the glamour of sympathy or 
the idle whim of a summer leisure-hour. We 
had agreed some time ago that you and your 
sister would do well to spend the winter in Ber- 
lin ; I wish you would make your preparations 
to leave at once.” 

A week later Margareth received a parcel con- 
taining a portrait of little Stella, a water-color 
sketch or two and a few books ; with these 
Alex Denham’s card, and the words, “ I am leav- 
ing for Berlin. Good-bye. May Heaven bless 
you !” 

But Margareth had scarcely time to think 
over the words or the gift ; her care for Bufus 
absorbed her. When his father was brought 
home drowned, Bufus had become greatly ex- 
cited, and had drank heavily of liquor which he 
had concealed in a jug in the marsh near the 
house. He blamed himself for his father’s death 
because Boland had gone out on the marshes 
after an altercation he had had with his son 
concerning the nets. Usually, the two had been 
quiet and civil toward each other, but with con- 
stant drunkenness the temper of M. Tullius be- 
came more irritable, while Bufus was by his 
early indulgence in drink breaking his naturally 
kindly disposition as well as weakening his iron 
strength. 

The more of a wreck Bufus became, the more 


1 

i 


IN THE FALLING BAIN 253 

Margaretli pitied him. To the kindness of a 
sister she added the tenderness of a mother, 
such as she felt toward the three children of 
Harriet. There was a certain generosity about 
Rufus that touched her. He never demanded 
anything for himself because all the poor little 
property was his ; he never objected if Marga- 
reth could get possession of the money for a con- 
signment of fish and spend it on the household ; 
he could never be so cross nor so drunk as to 
give an evil look to Archie, whom he called al- 
ways poor little chap,’’ nor to Stella, whom he 
named “Angel.” Just now he seemed com- 
pletely broken down, and accused himself of 
being the cause of his father’s death. 

“ Who got the whisky, you or father ?” asked 
Margareth. 

“ He did.” 

“ And did you offer him any, or urge him to 
drink that night?” 

“ No ; I told him he’d better not — better leave 
it till we got on board the Siren. Fact was, 
Margareth, I didn’t mind for us grown-up ones, 
but somehow I couldn’t bear him to be taking 
too much where the poor little chap and Angel 
were. The little lad has enough hard luck on 
his own account, and Angel looks straight 
through you. I felt ashamed for him before 
the children.” 

“ I cannot see that the dispute over the nets 


254 


ROLAND^S DAUGHTER. 


amounted to much ; I suppose it would not have 
arisen or been noticed only for the drinking.’’ 

‘‘And then, you see, when he went out, I felt 
mad that he had helped himself ; and I helped 
myself, and so I got too dull to notice his danger 
from the rising water or to go out and help you 
save him.” 

“ I had help. It was too late. I think he 
had stumbled into the channel. We must leave 
him with God, Rufus. We have nothing more 
to do for the dead. We have only to ask God 
to give us courage and patience that we do not 
lament too much that which we cannot help. 
But you know for the living there is hope — 
and danger. For you, Rufus, there is something 
to be done. Let us help each other. I will go 
out with you in the Siren ; I will stay with you 
constantly if you will only try and break off 
this habit that is killing you. You are burning 
up your life, Rufus.” 

“And you don’t blame me and think I killed 
father ?” 

“ I really feel that you had nothing to do with 
it.” 

“Well, then, Madge, I’ll make one more try, 
for your sake. That wretched jug is empty, and 
I won’t get it filled. But you cannot go out in 
the Siren; it won’t do. It was bad enough 
when there were two of us in it and you only 
went to keep us straight, but you cannot do a 


IN THE FALLING RAIN 


255 


man's work among the fish. I'll hire a boy, and 
we'll do the best we can." 

If Eufus would keep free of the liquor, Mar- 
gareth saw that it would be much better for her 
to desert the Siren and the fishing. The long 
hours tossing in sun and wind on the sea, the 
fiapping and the smell of the fish, had no attrac- 
tions for her. She preferred never to see Lone- 
Bird Shoals " again. Still, she must do some- 
thing ; the fishing, in the hands of Bufus and a 
hired-boy, would not be very profitable, with the 
boy to pay. She applied for the district school ; 
it had already been promised to a young girl of 
Lynn. 

I wish. Miss Roland," said Trustee Wagstafi*, 
‘‘ that you had it — I really do. It's against my 
principles engaging what we may call foreign 
talent, when we have home talent. But this 
young lady's uncle is on the committee. How- 
sumever. Miss Roland, if anything should occur 
— which it is not likely there will — then I'll call 
your application to mind." 

The partial reforms, the spasmodic returns to 
sobriety, of an inebriate who has some conscience 
left, are like the flattering symptoms of improve- 
ment and the brief awakenings of strength in a 
consumptive, luring the patient and his friends 
to a happy hope. When after indulgence has 
come satiety, when in the reaction of depressed 
spirits the voice of conscience and the meanings 


256 


ROLAND’S DAUGHTER. 


of remorse are heard, then there are ‘‘ grief and 
hatred ’’ toward the besetting sin and a sudden 
turning from it. If there were also a true 
sense of sin, and apprehension of the mercy of 
God in Christ,” there would be permanent re- 
form. 

All along the unhappy course of her father’s 
life Margareth had looked for his restoration ; 
she had planned, striven, hoped, believed, until 
that fatal moment when came that thud on the 
bow of the punt and the consciousness of that 
lifeless body borne up the channel on the strong 
black rising of the moonlit main. 

Since the hour when in falling mist she stood 
by that grave in the wet and weed-grown potter’s 
field she had not dared to recall her father. She 
could not venture to follow him in thought be- 
yond the threshold of the other life. She knew 
that if she fixed her mind on him, cherished his 
memory and yet could get no gleam of light 
upon it, the weight of grief would crush her 
and she would no longer be able to stand up in 
valiant defence of the living. It is hard for the 
old to forget or to put pain out of mind. Long 
strain of years on the emotions produces inelas- 
ticity, and we sink under the crushing force of 
sorrow that cannot be cast off. But, in the 
bounty of God, it is otherwise with youth. If 
not, in the progress of events half the children 
of humanity would be unfitted for their battle 


IN THE FALLTNG RAIN. 


257 


before it had well begun. The very coursing of 
young vigor in the veins, the strong filling of 
the lungs, the joy in existing, the energy of 
well-nourished muscle, help to cast ofP sorrow. 
If Margareth’s mother had lived to go out in the 
punt that night and come home with that terri- 
ble burden in its wake, it would probably have 
sealed her death ; but her daughter passed 
through it, and presently life in all its fullness 
revived. 

This return of hope was aided by the transient 
reform of Rufus. For a while he was all that 
his sister desired him to be. 

We’ll come to better things, Margareth,” he 
said, one evening, as they two wandered along 
the sands ; “ I will make some money now. 
We’ll help the poor little chap to an education ; 
he has brains, that little fellow, like his father. 
See how he has learned to read. We’ll have a 
better house, and the weight shall be lifted off 
your shoulders before it makes them stoop. And 
we’ll buy a lot in the cemetery at the village and 
move him over there, with a good stone — ‘ Pro- 
fessor,’ and all that, on it, you know. We’ll 
come ’round.” 

That was one of the attractive things about 
Rufus : he was always planning for others rather 
than for himself ; and in that he was so different 
from his father, who had always thought first of 
himself. 


17 


258 


ROLAND^ S DAUGHTER. 


‘‘ You know,” began Rufus, again, the little 
old preacher was having a try at me the other 
day, and he made it out that there was no hope 
for a man unless he repented and forsook sin, 
and I told him repentance wasn’t so necessary 
if a body forsook. He said one must confess 
and repent and forsake if God was to show him 
mercy. Now, it seemed to me that, as God is so 
great, he might be sorry for us poor wretches 
and show mercy, any way. I say, Margareth : 
don’t you want God to show me mercy on any 
terms ?” 

‘‘ I want God to show you mercy on his own 
terms, for I am sure those are the only terms 
that would be creditable to his government and 
suitable to you. I want God to give • you what 
is called ‘ repentance unto life ’ — a repentance in 
which you will hate sin and mourn it, and fly to 
Christ for pardon and strength. If you had 
that, I know you would be safe, and only so. 
But how much I wish it, Rufus, is only to be 
told in the words of the old-time intercessors : 
Hf not, now I pray thee blot me out of thy 
book ;’ H could wish myself accursed for my 
brethren according to the flesh.’ ” 


CHAPTEE XY. 


THE WRECK OF THE SIREN. 

"Then the maiden clasped lier hands and prayed 
That savM she might be, 

And she thought of Christ, that stilled the waves 
On the Lake of Galilee.” 

I T was a warm evening late in September, and 
a group of fishermen were sitting on the end 
of the Welby Haven pier. 

‘‘ So Eufus Roland’s broke loose again ?” said 
one. ‘‘ I thought, after his father went off so 
sudden, he was going to reform. He kept quite 
steady till this last three weeks.” 

“ What I’d like to know,” said a second, is 
where he gets his whisky.” 

‘‘ I can tell you. Buff,” said Burgham : he 
gets it of Miss Eliza Topples, who keeps the 
‘Welby Junction House,’ who wears a silk 
gown, an ostrich-feather, a gold chain and rings 
enough for the weddin’-outfit of a Hindu idol. 
Yes, he gets it of Miss Eliza Topples, who has 
jugs down in her cellar, to sell on the sly, where- 
by she enlarges her profits. When American 
women in the latter end of the nineteenth century, 

259 


260 


ROLAND^S DAUGHTER. 


in an enlightened community, sell theirselves to 
do such soul-and-body-everlastin’-destroyin’ work 
as that, donh trouble yourself to try and impress 
on my mind the doctrine of total depravity : it’s 
proved clear. Don’t go for historic evidence as 
to the wickedness of savage Indians, nor for 
medical testimony along of Chinese lepers, nor 
for no allusions to the wicked ways of the Dark 
Ages : here’s a thing as beats them completely 
hollow, as I’m a teetotaller.” 

Good for you, Burgham !” said an old man. 
‘‘ I don’t hold to setting the laws at defiance ; I 
don’t say what ticket I voted : all I say is we’ve 
got a law and we ought to see it carried out. 
When ’Liza Topples was ’rested on charge of 
breakin’ laws and soilin’ whisky, then, if we 
have got any back-bone in our county, she’d 
ought to have bin’ fined and her license to keep 
public-house revoked.” 

What riles me,” said Burgham, is her bein’ 
’lowed to sing in a church choir.” 

“ That’s ’cause she’s got a good sopranner 
voice,” said BufiP. “ Screeches right up to the 
top of the heap.” 

“Well, if she had all the voices that’s down 
in the books — sopranner and alto and tenor and 
bass — I say, if she’s not a good woman, she 
oughtn’t to be ’lowed to sing in the choir. 
Choir-singin’ is a part of worship, and the Lord 
don’t want to be worshiped by no lyin’. The 


THE WRECK OF THE SIREN. 


261 


idee of ’Liza Topples, who is doing her level 
best to extend the kingdom of Satan, standing 
up there behind the parson, facin’ the congrega- 
tion, and singin’, 

“ ‘ I love thy kingdom, Lord, 

The house of thine abode ’ ! 

I call it downright blasphemy. The Lord should 
be worshiped with the spirit and the understand- 
in’ as well as with the organs of the throat. I 
don’t deny I like the singin’ in a church, and 
oftentime I drop in to listen where I knows 
there’s good music ; but I say, if we can’t have 
good, reasonably pious Christians in the singin’, 
let’s even go so far as not to have any singin’. 
I tell you, it goes to my heart more to hear my 
old mother, whose voice, never being much to 
speak of, is now cracked and quiverin’ — it goes 
to my heart more to hear her sing, 

‘ Jesus, the very thought of thee 
With sweetness fills my breast, 

But sweeter far thy face to see 
And in thy presence rest,’ 

when I know she means it, lives by it, is goin’ 
to die by it and eternally enjoy what she’s sing- 
in’ about, than all the highfalutin quilly-quaver- 
ings ’Liza Topples could strike out in a year of 
Sundays. Now, there’s little Mary Snow. She 
ain’t much more voice than a chippy-bird— a lit- 


262 


ROLAND DAUGHTER. 


tie wild, fluttering chirpy note ; but when I heard 
her one evenin’ a-singin’ to herself, 

“ ‘ By cool Siloam’s shady rill 
How sweet the lily blows !’ 


why, it stirred me right up, because it was the 
very picter of the good religious little creature 
herself. If I ever overhaul Parson Tucker con- 
venient, I’ll make bold to mention what appears 
to me to be a screw loose in his choir.” 

“ That’s all very true,” said Buff ; but if 
’Liza don’t sell, somebody else will. There’s 
always a market where there’s buyers. If Bufe 
Poland wants whisky, he’ll be sure to get it some- 
how.” 

“ Confound it !” said one fisher ; ‘‘ if making 
the county prohibition won’t save a man, what 
will?” 

‘‘Try making the whole country so,” said 
Burgham. 

“ Don’t you see, sir ?” said Buff. “ Pufe’s got 
a craze — just as much a maniac as ever filled 
’sylums. He was born with a taste ; it runs in 
the blood — whole generations, sir. It tells.” 

“ Whatever it is, it’s going to ruin the whole 
lot of them. He can’t go out alone in the Siren, 
and he can’t get any one to go with him. Week 
before last he threw his boy overboard, and 
this week he hit the man he hired a black eye, 
and he’ll get no others to hire out with him. 


THE WRECK OF THE SIREN. 263 

The Welby Haven fishermen won’t stand that 
kind of fooling.” 

‘‘Yes, and now to-day his sister’s gone out 
with him. I have a fear it will be her death. 
Even if she can keep him down so he will not 
injure her — but that will play out some time as 
he gets more violent — why, some day, if a sud- 
den gust or a black squall rises, the brother, if 
drunk, can play the fool to hinder her bringing 
in the Siren. She’ll capsize, and we’ll have two 
dead bodies fioatin’ in, and the whole family up 
there in the cottage left destitute.” 

“ That’s so,” said Burgham ; “ and yet there 
seems no help for it. She couldn’t get the school, 
and this is a plain little place and not much sew- 
ing to be had. No one else can go out with Rufus 
and make him do a day’s work ; and unless the 
fish are caught and sold, all those little children 
and their unlucky mother must go hungry and 
destitute in the winter cold that is coming on. 
They have not laid up anything much this sum- 
mer, I’ll be bound ; and now, if they can’t get 
the last take of the bluefish and the best run of 
bass, why what will become of them ? Market’s 
pretty'good now for bluefish, and flounders never 
fetched so fair a price.” 

Although Burgham had turned the conversa- 
tion upon bluefish and flounders, he still had 
Margareth’s case at heart; and one afternoon, 
when sure that Rufus yet lingered about the fish- 


264 


ROLAND^S DAUGHTER. 


house, he went boldly to his home and asked for 
him. 

‘ He’s not in yet,” said Harriet. 

‘‘As I’m come along of fish, maybe the young 
lady could speak with me as well if she’ll step 
out,” said Burgham. 

When Margareth appeared, he faced about 
and walked down the causeway with her at his 
side. He thought he could speak better if he 
were not driven- to look into the depths of her 
sorrowful eyes. 

“ What’s wrong ?” asked Margareth, who had 
fallen into a habit of feeling that something must 
always be wrong. 

“ W^hy, nothing very much in pertic’lar,” said 
Burgham; “only — Well, some of us fishin’- 
folks is a good bit uneasy over your going out in 
that boat to the shoals.” 

“ The Siren is a very good boat,” said Marga- 
reth. 

“None better; but here’s autumn days and 
autumn squalls, and strong arms and steady 
brains may be needed.” 

“ I have a steady brain and my brother has 
strong arms.” 

“ Ay, that’s true ; but the arms an’ the brains 
should belong to the same body, if so be they’d 
be sure an’ pull together. In a sudden emer- 
gency, you see, cross-purposes might make all 
the difierence between life and death.” 


I 

4 

1 

f 

i 


THE WRECK OF THE SIREN. 


265 


Margareth walked slowly on without mak- 
ing any reply. 

“I hope you don’t take our interference to 
heart,” said Burgham. “ We’re family-men, 
most of us, and we have women-folk at home — 
that renders us more considering on women’s 
account, maybe — and if I speak out, it is like a 
father. Miss Boland, can’t you let out the boat 
to some fisher ? Even on halves you’d be likely 
to get more than now.” 

“It is not my boat ; it is my brother’s. All 
that we have is his. He never seems to think of 
it in that way, but it is so, and I could not rent 
the boat. If I did, it would only make matters 
worse. Bufus would have nothing to do, and it 
might complete his ruin. I’m always looking 
for him to reform. I hoped he had, a little 
while ago.” Tears rose in her eyes and rolled 
slowly over her cheeks. 

Burgham was greatly moved : 

“ Well, miss, strong diseases need strong meas- 
ures. Couldn’t you get him shut up somewhere 
just for a bit — till he got reformed ? I’ve known 
it to work well. I’ve known men to put them- 
selves in such places. My wife had a cousin, a 
master marble-cutter: he had an arrangement 
with his foreman. ‘ Maunders,’ he says, ‘ if ever 
I break out, you’ll put me in a hack and take 
me off to the Waxley Beform Home, if you have 
to call in a policeman to help. That’s orders.’ 


266 


ROLAND’S DAUGHTER. 


So Maunders used to take him oif, and he’d come 
out quiet and keep solid maybe a whole year.” 

‘‘ But he broke out again. And then it cost 
money, and we have no money. And there is 
no such home near here.” 

''I’ve known men to be cured completely. 
Couldn’t you persuade your brother to go to 
one of those places for a year or so?” 

" He has no money to expend that way. And 
then, when he is sober, he thinks he will never j 
be otherwise ; and when he has been drinking, ■ 
he would not listen to such a proposal. There \ 
is no way that I can see, Mr. Burgh am, but just \ 
to let things go on as now they are going.” J 

" I’m afraid the Siren will come to grief with" i 
you in it.” ! 

" Let us hope not.” 

" And we cannot help you any sort of ways ? 
We’re all willing.” 

"You are very kind, but there is no way; do 
not think of it,” said Margareth, firmly. 

"At all events. I’ll sail my Pixie pretty near 
your Siren, and you’d better see to it that we 
keep company as well as possible ; and if any- 
thing goes wrong aboard your craft, we can lend 
you a hand. Moreover, miss, I’d proclaim lynch- 
law to whisky if I was you, and notice where 
it’s kept and fiing it out. I’d like to proclaim 
ly nch-law to the breakers of the law that sell it ; 
only trying to kill one evil with another is not 


THE WRECK OF THE SIREN. 267 

law or gospel. However, some of us are going 
for ’Liza Topples again before the courts and 
stop off her selling. Still, there are always 
some as is ready to make gain of their fellows’ 
sins and weaknesses.” 

They had stood talking at the end of the 
causeway. 

‘‘ There’s no more to say,” said Burgham ; 
only look out for sudden squalls of any kind, 
and don’t carry too much sail. The Siren’s got 
a lot of canvas for her sized hull ; and when 
you’ve got an idee that you know what to do 
and are sailing her right, why go ahead with it, 
miss, on your own opinions. I think you sail 
her remarkable well, and a cat-rigged craft is 
not hard to manage if you’ve a cool head and a 
quick eye, and understand the boat and the coast 
and the manners of the wind in these parts.” 

Burgham had given all the advice that occurred 
to him, and he started off up the high-road. 
Margareth stood waiting for Rufus, whom in 
the gathering dimness she saw coming up the 
foot-path. 

‘‘ Who was that ?” asked Rufus. 

Burgham.” 

^'And what did he want?” 

‘‘ He thinks it is not safe for me aboard the 
Siren.” 

You’re not safe anywhere with me, Marga- 
reth,” said Rufus, with a sigh. 


268 


ROLAND'S DAUGHTER. 


‘‘Who was that man?’’ asked Harriet, un- 
easily, as the two came into the house. 

“ Mr. Burgham,” said Margareth. 

“ I don’t remember any such family about 
here.” 

“ No ; his family live at West Balhead.” 

“ Is — is he a married man ?” asked Harriet 

“Yes, he is !” cried Margareth, sharply. 

“ What a thing it is to be a fool and have few 
ideas !” growled Bufus, half aloud, in the towel 
whereon he was wiping his face. Then his wrath 
gathered, and he walked up to Harriet : “ That 
Mr. Burgham is a fisher here, and a very decent 
man ; I am a fisher here, and not a decent man ; 
but my sister Margareth is a lady and has never 
done anything to alter her station in life. More- 
over, I don’t know what claim any of us have on 
Margareth, that she must sacrifice herself to us 
and our wretched affairs. We are asking too 
much of Margareth, and she has been so gener- 
ous to us that we have come to take as a right 
what she yielded out of goodness. For my part, 
I cannot see what she stays with any of us for, 
when she might do better by herself” 

Harriet shrank away, quite cowed by this 
outburst. 

Margareth, however, led Rufus to his seat by 
the table. 

“ I stay with you all,” she said, softly, smooth- 
ing his cheek with her hand, “because I love 


THE WRECK OF THE SIREN. 


269 


you all, and I do not leave you because I should 
not be happy if I were away from you all when 
you need me. In the family one cannot stand 
or fall alone.” 

That’s so,” said Rufus, grimly. “ I’ve 
proved it, and seen it proved, that if one of 
the family takes to falling, he drags all the 
rest down.” 

Surely these were not exhilarating family dis- 
cussions ; it took all Margareth’s energy and all 
her power of calling out wit and simplicity from 
the three children to smooth over matters and 
secure moderate cheerfulness for the evening. 

The equinox opened with a sudden heavy gale. 
Storms had brooded and threatened for some 
days, but the run of fish was fine, and the fieet 
repaired, as usual, to the shoals. Then the 
threats of storm ceased, the sun came out hotly, 
the wind died into a calm, and the fishers prog- 
nosticated that when the day’s ‘‘ take ” was over 
they must help themselves home with sweeps or 
oars. The fish were coming up as fast as lines 
could pull them in, all the hooks at once bring- 
ing up prey in some casts ; the glittering heaps 
were flapping and tumbling and thrashing off 
scales that flew about like flat sparkling hail ; no 
one stopped to clean the booty: that could be 
done later. A low black bank of cloud gath- 
ered in the north-east, then rose and formed a 
cone, then whirled and broadened at the top and 


270 


ROLAND'S DAUGHTER. 


spread into a tree, then swept into the zenith and 
shadowed all the sky. The waters turned a dull 
purple and heaved uneasily, breaking into long 
lines of foam. The work at the shoals stopped ; 
lines were reeled up, anchors were taken in and 
sails were shaken out. 

‘‘ Get in as quickly as you can,” shouted Burg- 
ham to the Siren. “ There’s a stunning squall 
coming up. Take a deep reef in your sail and 
keep close to me.” 

What’s the' fool talking about ?” cried Bufus, 
who had been drinking, having had a bottle con- 
cealed in his shirt-pocket. ‘‘ Let him sail his 
boat ; we’ll sail ours. Leave this shoal ! Why, 
we’ll make five dollars more in the next twenty 
minutes. Keep close to him and reef! The 
Siren will run past him like shot, and he says 
‘reef’ so that we won’t get in ahead of him. 
Oh, I know all about the sharp tricks of these 
fishermen. There isn’t a gentleman in the 
whole lot of ’em.” 

“ Bufus, they are all going, and we must go. 
They know what they’re about ; they understand 
this coast better than we do. My line is reeled, 
and I’ll see to yours while you get up the anchor 
at once.” 

“ I’ll be hanged if I go now !” 

“ Oh yes, you will go — for my sake. You 
don’t want to frighten me or make me unhappy ? 
Come, now, be quick, Bufus.” 


THE WRECK OF THE SIREN. 271 

“ That^s the plague of girls ! always getting 
scared. I’ll go out with a man next time, you 
see,” answered Rufus, sulkily, as he hoisted the 
anchor. 

Margareth attended to his line, and then pro- 
ceeded to see to the sail, which was hoisted or 
lowered by a patent adjustment. 

Zounds !” shouted Rufus, turning about furi- 
ously. ‘‘Who’s captain of this boat, Burgham 
or me ? I vow if you haven’t gone and left in 
a great reef, so we’ll crawl in at the heels of the 
Pixie ! Here ! I know how to sail the Siren, 
if I don’t know another thing.” He pushed his 
sister from her place ; he had not often spoken 
or behaved so roughly to her. Keeping his eyes 
away from hers, with a jerk he ran up the sail 
to the full extent of its canvas. 

The wind had come hurling down upon the 
sea, and as Rufus leaned on the tiller and let out 
the main-sheet the Siren shot off like a racer on 
a smooth course, foam flying from her bows, her 
head stooping to the sea, the wind swaying and 
bending her burdened mast. 

“ Rufus, larboard, larboard !” shrieked Marga- 
reth. 

Rufus instinctively obeyed, and just in time to 
rush by instead of into the Pixie — a narrow es- 
cape from sinking both boats. 

Burgham, catching his breath after his close 
shave from ruin, leaped on his little deck, and. 


272 


ROLAND^ S DAUGHTER. 


clasping his arm about the mast to steady him- 
self, eyed the flying Siren. 

‘‘She’ll lose her mast or capsize,” he cried. ; 
“ In this gale with a madman in command ! It’s ; 
just as I said : the girl cannot do one thing with ; 
him.” I 

At this instant Rufus mismanaged the tiller j 
and the main-sheet, drawing the sheet in instead j 
of letting it run loose, and the Siren went over | 
— in a moment was completely capsized. j 

“On there!” screamed Burgham, snatching a 
pair of sweeps to help his boat to the scene of ' 
disaster. “Save the girl first!” 

But as the- Pixie came up to the wreck the 
head of Rufus rose just to the surface of the 
water, and Burgham’s wiry grasp seized and 
drew him in ; he flung him in a heap on the 
fish, and in a second, kneeling at the bow, had 
both his brawny arms about the unconscious 
form of Margareth. When the girl first rose to 
the surface, though nearly stunned by a blow 
from one of the loose oars, she had instinctively 
turned on her back and floated, but with each 
wave rolling over her face. 

Burgham’s boat bore to the shore two senseless 
forms which he was vainly striving to restore to 
consciousness. They were carried to the nearest 
house to receive the earnest care of the community. 

Next morning the fragments of the Siren and 
the dead fish that had been her cargo strewed the 


273 


THE WRECK OF THE SIREN. 

beach. Rufus heard this as, supported on Buff’s 
arm, he slowly followed the arm-chair in which 
Burgham and others carried Margareth home. 

At the news of this final loss Rufus uttered 
not one word. Harriet cried and wrung her 
hands, and foretold starvation for herself and her 
children during the whole day as she waited on 
Margareth, propped in the large chair by the 
fire. Rufus sat close to his sister, his head on 
his hands, still silent. Finally, when Harriet 
in the evening declared it time for Margareth to 
go to bed, Rufus rose, and, stooping above the 
girl, kissed her twice, a pause between the 
kisses. 

You have been a good sister to me, Marga- 
reth,” he said, '^and you have got very little 
good by it.” Then he went up to his room. 

The next morning, when Persis went up late 
to call him to breakfast, Rufus was gone. He 
had been in bed, but had risen hours before any 
of the others were awake, and had swung him- 
self down from his window by a sheet. He 
had taken away a small bag of clothing, and, 
though Burgham, in Margareth’s behalf, made 
inquiries, no trace could be gotten of the direc- 
tion in which he had departed. 

18 


CHAPTER XVI. 


1 


A QUESTION OF SACRIFICES. j 

“ Let our unceasing, constant prayer ! 

Be, too, for light, for strength to bear ■ 

Our portion of the weight of woe.” j 

T T was an October evening. On one side of ' 
the fireplace of the cottage in the marsh sat I 
Harriet ; by her, circled by her arm, stood Per- 
sis, leaning her head against her mother’s cheek ; 
opposite these two was Margareth, holding Ar- 
chie on her knee and gently caressing the pale 
face that rested upon her shoulder. These four 
were all that were now left of the lessening 
household. That day they had buried Stella, 
who had suddenly “ fallen on sleep.” 

“ I suppose,” broke out Harriet, querulously, 
“that you and every one else are thinking I 
ought to feel more about the child’s death and 
make more fuss about it, but I can’t.” 

“ I do not think so,” said Margareth, quietly ; 
“I think many people err much in excess of ' 
grief over the death of young children. A little 
one like Stella has known only peace and com- 
fort on earth, and without any experience of 

274 


A QUESTION OF SACRIFICES. 


275 


tribulation enters into the joy of heaven. I 
think of such almost with envy : they seem to 
Kave gained immortality at — for them — so small 
a price. They know nothing of struggle, noth- 
ing of suffering.’’ 

“ I’m sure I cannot see what there was in this 
world for a child like that,” continued Harriet, 
in her tone of peevish remonstrance; ‘‘every 
day she lived she would be worse off. What- is 
there before a beautiful girl who grows up and 
don’t know where she will get a pair of shoes, or 
perhaps the next loaf of bread? Nothing but 
mortification and misery. She was just like 
your side of the house ; I could see that — little 
hands and feet, eyes that look a million miles 
off, skin like satin. I know what it would have 
come to: all her craving would have been for 
books and fiowers and pictures and learning, and 
all her heartbreak because none of these things 
came in her way. Now, Persis is different ; she 
can take her pleasure in such things as come in 
her lot. She likes to do and to have common 
things that there will be some chance of her 
having. No, I cannot grieve over Stella’s going. 
We have one left of the delicate, sensitive, easily- 
hurt kind, and I’m sure I don’t know what ever 
will become of him.” 

Margareth drew little Archie closer in her 
arms, and the little fellow put up his thin hand 
and stroked her chin. He felt in some indefinite 


276 


ROLAND DAUGHTER. 


fashion that he was at sword’s points with fate, 
and that Margareth was his champion against all 
the onsets of evil. 

Yes, it is well — very well — not to grieve,” 
said Margareth, speaking more for the sake of 
the children than for that of their mother. 

But I wish you could in thought follow the 
little child into the beautiful and blessed home 
into which she has gone, and so get nearer heav- 
en because your little one is there.” 

‘‘ I cannot,” said Harriet ; “I cannot get any 
farther than the grave where I know her body 
is lying. I can see that, but I cannot see any- 
thing of heaven or angels or streets of gold or 
flowers, or any part of paradise. If I had seen 
her growing up with all the comforts of this life 
about her and in prospect, if I’d known she 
could go on and enjoy things that she could get 
and could get things that she could enjoy, then 
I would have taken some comfort in her as a 
happy woman.” 

‘‘ She has all that, and more, now. She will 
always enjoy what she has and have what she 
can enjoy ; every wish will have full satisfaction. 
Indeed, I should not say ‘ wish,’ for in heaven 
wishes will have no time to rise : our God will 
forestall all our desire. On earth, in the most 
favorable lot, might come sickness, sorrow, loss, 
death ; into heaven enters nothing that shall 
offend.” 


A QUESTION OF SACRIFICES. 277 

“ Yes, I’ve heard it so said,” replied Harriet, 
‘‘ but I’m one of those who keep craving for a 
portion here below, where one can see it and use 
it.” 

Just then came a step and a knock, and Persis 
ran to open the door. Trustee Wagstaff entered. 

“ I hope I’m not intruding,” he said. It’s a 
sad time for you — we all feel for you — but busi- 
ness is business, and couldn’t be put off. Miss 
Roland, that young lady from Lynn has gone 
back on us about the school : she got a much 
better offer down South, and she says she is sick 
of Northern winters, and, moreover, she’s not 
very strong ; and she wants us to let her off from 
our bargain. If you’ll take the school — it be- 
gins Monday, you know — *it will be all right, 
and I’ll telegraph to her in the morning.” 

I shall be very glad indeed to get it, Mr. 
Wagstaff,” said Margareth. 

‘‘I’m glad school’s openin’ again, I’m sure. 
We don’t have it long enough down here — only 
from the middle of October to the middle of 
June. But then we don’t give them any holi- 
days during that time, except a week Christmas. 
It comes of our being seafaring folk, and, what 
with the fish and the scallops and the cranber- 
ries keeping the children out to pick up a few 
dollars for themselves, I’m sick of seeing the 
little shavers wasting so much time. Well, Miss 
Roland, on Monday morning you’ll take posses- 


278 


ROLAND'S DAUGHTER. 


sion. You^ll find a fire made and all ready, only 
the clock : that loses from twenty to forty min- 
utes every day, and youdl have to keep your eye 
on it. — Mrs. E-oland, my wife said, if it was con- 
venient to you, she’d be obliged if you’d come 
over and give her a week’s help at sewing.” 

‘‘ If I could — ” began Harriet. 

‘‘You can,” said Margareth. “ By all means. 
I can get the breakfast out of the way before 
school-time, and tea after I get home. Archie 
is five ; he has a right to go to school now, and 
I know he will enjoy it.” 

“And, you see,” piped up Archie, “I know 
how to read, and to write my name, and to make 
a whole lot of figures on my slate.” 

“ You’re a smart one, if you are little,” said 
Mr. Wagstaff. — “ Well, Mrs. Boland, we’ll look 
for you to breakfast Monday.” 

All this was a ray of good-fortune that turned 
conversation into cheery channels when the trus- 
tee went away. Harriet began to plan how the 
next day could be spent in making her own and 
her children’s clothing suitable for the next 
week, and Margareth was sure her thirty dollars 
a month would afibrd them all a good living for 
the school-year. 

The week with Mrs. Wagstaff lengthened into 
two, then three. Harriet explained that she had 
offered to stay at reduced price to help quilt, and 
then she stayed longer to aid Mrs. Wagstaff in 


A QUESTION OF SACRIFICES. 279 

trying out lard and making sausage, and in 
doing other fall work. 

Margareth paid very little attention to all this. 
She was glad Harriet had found something to do, 
and she saw that the something was having a 
beneficial effect on her. Harriet brightened up. 
Her voice lost its whine ; she was more brisk ; 
she chatted over the neighborhood gossip. It 
did not particularly interest Margareth, but it 
interested Harriet, which was the main thing. 
Margareth thought the change of work, sur- 
roundings, fare, interests, did wonders for Har- 
riet. She revived some taste in her dress, ar- 
ranged her hair more carefully, spent much of 
each evening in doing up or mending her clothes, 
and put little ruffles on her neck and sleeves. 
This pleased Margareth. It was her theory that 
all should do the best they could for themselves 
at all times, and that it was weak and foolish to 
remit personal cares and let affairs go by default 
merely because of adverse circumstances.* If 
things were bad in themselves, so much the more 
reason for not making them worse by neglect 
and repinings. 

I went over to the town this afternoon with 
Mrs. Wagstaff,” said Harriet, coming in as Mar- 
gareth and the children finished their supper; 

she asked me to go and help her pick out some 
buttons for her new dress. I declare, it is nice 
having a carryall to take you about, instead of 


280 


BOLAND'S DAUGHTER. 


being obliged to stay at home for ever or trail 
along in the mud on foot. The store was full 
of people, and there was no end of new goods 
real cheap. I thought, as long as I was there, 
I might as well spend part of the money Mrs. 
Wagstaff owed me in getting me something to 
be decent in.” 

“ I’m very glad you did,” said Margareth. 

“ I knew you would be,” responded Harriet, 
cordially, sitting down and opening her bundle. 
“ See ! I got me this brown stuff for a dress ; I 
hadn’t had one for so long I concluded to get it 
pretty good. It don’t pay to buy too cheap 
things. And aren’t these pretty collars ? I got 
three of them. And this white is for two white 
aprons ; if one goes out sewing, one must be de- 
cently dressed.” 

It is all very nice,” said Margareth, quietly. 

“And what did you get mef^ demanded Per- 
sis the prompt. 

“Pll get you something the next time,” re- 
plied her mother. — “ I’m going to get my dress 
done between now and Sunday,” continued Har- 
riet, “ because I am to go to church with Mrs. 
Wagstaff.” 

“ I’m glad of that,” said Margareth. 

“ Oh, won’t you take me, please ?” said Archie. 
“ I never went to a church, and I want so much 
to go ! I’d sit on your lap in the carriage, and 
I wouldn’t be in the way at all.” 


A QUESTION OF SACRIFICES. 


281 


“ Some other time, Archie,’’ said Harriet, 
hastily ; ‘‘ it would not be polite to take you 
when you were not asked.” 

The next day, after school, Margareth walked 
over to the town and used part of her month’s 
wages in buying flannels for the children, a thick 
woolen dress for Persis and dark-green cloth to 
make Archie a little suit and cap. 

Archie’s new garb was flnished by eleven on 
Saturday night, and on Sunday, when Harriet 
rode off with Mrs. Wagstaff to go to church at 
Gray Point, Margareth started for the church at 
Wei by, wheeling Archie in his little carriage 
along the path through the woods. 

Margareth now noticed that Harriet seemed to 
find more work out than usual, and had also 
sewing at home; but what she got for it she 
kept for herself, except buying a hat and coat 
for Persis. Margareth thought little of the 
matter ; she knew Harriet was of a feeble, nar- 
row nature, and such natures are rather warped 
than ennobled by sorrow. 

Margareth,” said Harriet, one evening when 
they were all sitting about the fireplace, I think 
I’ve had a pretty poor time in my life ; and if 
I’m ever going to better myself, it is time I did 
so.” 

Oh yes,” replied Margareth, absently, hardly 
noticing what Harriet had said. She was think- 
ing of Pufus, and wondering what was his lot in 


282 


ROLAND^ S DAUGHTER. 


that cold midwinter weather, and whether she 
ever should see him again. 

Hardly anybody ever had such a poor time 
as I have,’’ continued Harriet, letting fall her 
sewing in her lap. ‘'My mother was weakly, 
and as a child I had to be helping in the work 
when I wasn’t at school. Then, when I was a 
young girl, I had mother to wait on through a 
long sickness, and my trade to learn. I learned 
plain dressmaking and boys’ tailor- work. Then, 
when my mother was dead, pretty soon father 
took paralysis, and I had him to look to and my 
house to keep and my trade to follow. You may 
believe I worked steady and did not see much 
amusement in those days.” 

“Yes, such a life is hard — very hard indeed, 
Harriet.” 

“ So I say. Then, when I was alone, doing 
for myself — no kin in the world of a near kind 
— ^that was hard. And then your father came 
along. Between pity for the case he was in and 
being flattered by his paying attentions to me, 
and his style and look and altogether being quite 
above all I was accustomed to, and the notion I 
had that I might get into some great place in the 
world, and my fancy of showing the folks up 
my way that I knew what I was about and could 
hold my own, — why, I married him. You know 
what came after that, Margareth. What a case 
I was in when you came home !” 


A QUESTION OF SACRIFICES. 283 

“ It was very sad,” said Margareth, soothingly. 

“And it hasn’t been much better since,” con- 
tinued Harriet, apparently finding great satisfac- 
tion in enumerating past ills. “ How I’ve ever 
gone through all I have, and lived, I don’t know. 
Three children without a dollar to rear them on, 
and sickness and losses, and accidents and sudden 
death ! I declare, if I don’t see some comfort 
pretty soon, I never will, that’s clear. But, 
Margareth, you’ve been very good to me ; I 
tell everybody no one could have been better. 
I’d have been dead long ago, and so would my 
children, if it hadn’t been for you. You have 
been so kind, so generous !” 

“Never mind that; don’t mention it,” said 
Margareth. 

“ Yes, I must say I feel it. I always shall 
feel it, and never forget it, no matter how much 
better off I may be. And, as you are so kind 
and sympathizing, Margareth, I make sure you 
would be always glad of what made me better 
off, and wouldn’t stand in my way of ever mak- 
ing myself better off.” 

“ Oh no, surely not,” said Margareth, vaguely, 
with an idea of mill-work somewhere, or perhaps 
a dressmaker’s shop. “ What do you think of 
doing ?” 

“ I think — of — getting married.” 

“ What ! What in the world ?” cried Marga- 
reth, startled into attention. 


284 


ROLAND^S DAUGHTER. 


‘‘And why not?’’ demanded Harriet, crossly. 
“ I’m not too old : I’m scarce past forty ; nor am 
I too ugly — in some folks’ opinion.” 

“And whom do you propose to marry ?” asked 
Margareth. 

“Mr. Green, brother-in-law to Mr. Wagstaif; 
he’s been a widower a year. I met him at Mrs. 
Wagstafif’s, and she did all she could to bring it 
about ; for he needs some one to see to his place 
and house. He’s quite well-to-do — a nice farm 
over at Gray Point. I think it is a good chance 
for me.” 

“ I hope so,” said Margareth. “ When will 
you be married?” 

“ He proposes the tenth of January, and I 
said it would do very well. I can get ready ; 
I’ve been quietly getting some things together 
for a while, but you didn’t seem to notice.” 

“ No ; I never thought of it.” 

Harriet gave utterance to a little chuckle of 
self-satisfaction : 

“And Mr. Green likes Persis. I’m going to 
take Persis, you know. She is getting to be a 
great girl, and she is so smart about the house 
she will soon be a real help to me.” 

“ Surely,” said Margareth, blankly ; “ a child 
goes with its mother.” 

“ But there’s — Archie,” said Harriet, hesitat- 
ingly ; “I don’t know what he’d do without 
you, Margareth.” 


A QUESTION OF SACRIFICES. 285 

“ I shall miss him, little dear !” said Marga- 
reth, heartily. 

‘‘So I think. And you could hardly stay 
here all alone, and I know he’d fret himself 
sick after you. You have always had the care 
of him since he was born, and you get on with 
him ten times as well as I do. It seems I ought 
not to take him away from you.” 

Margareth turned a wondering gaze on Archie : 
she was thinking whether the new father would 
be kind to him, and whether his mother would 
be more or less affectionate in her altered cir- 
cumstances. 

“And then, too,” hurried on Harriet, “I hate 
to go and burden Mr. Green with two of them ; 
it seems over-much. And Archie will never get 
strong, to be any help on the farm ; and he may 
need a deal of nursing and doctoring, and Mr. 
Green might not like — ” 

“ What !” cried Margareth, in her seldom-used 
tone of proud challenge and command. “ What ! 
A mother marry a man who begins by refusing 
to receive and love her children ?” 

“ Oh, not that — not that,” said Harriet, 
alarmed at the flashing black eyes and the 
black straight brows bent upon her. “He 
never said that. Only, only I thought — I felt 
— I was sure the child would be so much better 
off with you, Margareth. And your father al- 
ways seemed to think you would take care of 


286 


ROLAND^S DAUGHTER. 


Archie, since you know how to educate him, and 
I don’t. And then it’s only fair — one for me, 
and one for you, Margareth. And I’m sure 
you’ll get on well. You have this house and 
all the things in it. I sha’n’t want to take any 
of them away, Margareth. You see, you will 
keep the school — :I’ll get Mrs. Wagstaff to see 
to that — and you’ll be obliged to stay here, for 
fear your brother should come back. But I 
cannot risk living with him again, for I’m so 
deadly afraid of him; but he won’t object to 
Archie.” 

Margareth walked over to the listening child, 
who sat in his high-chair by the table playing 
with jackstraws which she had made him. She 
gathered him into her strong arms, and, return- 
ing to the hearth, said. 

This is my child, for good or ill, for ever- 
more.” 

But the eyes bent on Harriet were stormy 
still. 

“ Oh yes, I knew you’d think well of it,” said 
Harriet, very glad at securing her end and re- 
gardless of Margareth’s private opinion. I 
told Mrs. Wagstaff you’d be sure and keep 
Archie. Yes, I’ll be well fixed over at Gray 
Point. I rode over there with Mrs. Wagstaff, 
and Mr. Green showed us all his place. He has 
a carryall, and a buggy, and three horses, and 
three cows, and a yard full of all kinds of fowls. 


A QUESTION OF SACRIFICES. 287 

The front room has haircloth furniture and a 
red ingrain carpet. The bedrooms all have 
nice rag carpets and green shades, and the 
kitchen floor is painted yellow. I never saw 
any house better fitted out with dishes and 
kitchen-things. There’s three very good bed- 
rooms, and a little hall-room for Persis, and he 
said he shouldn’t stand at all about buying a 
carpet and a cot and a washstand with drawers 
for that ; he calculated to have things proper.” 

Not a word from Margareth. She looked an 
irate young J uno, standing with the child pressed 
in her arms, her brows drawn straight, her eyes 
flashing fire, her breast heaving with angry 
scorn. 

Of all this Harriet appeared to be oblivious : 

We won’t have any wedding; he’ll come for 
me and we’ll drive over to the parson’s, and Mrs. 
Wagstaflf will take Persis over in her carryall, 
with her things, in the morning, and they’ll get 
dinner. I won’t have to buy Persis anything ; 
he said I could have all his first wife’s things 
for her.” 

At this practical revelation of Harriet’s late 
courtship Margareth did not know whether to 
burst into hysteric laughter or hysteric tears. 
She dropped back in her chair, and concluded 
neither to laugh nor cry. But the strain on her 
feelings, happily, was lessened, for Harriet went 
on : 


288 


ROLAND'S DAUGHTER. 


Margareth, you have always been so good I 
can ask you for one thing more. I shall always 
be grateful and never trouble you again, for I 
suppose we sha’n’t often see each other — it will 
be better not to — after I’m married. I haven’t 
quite all I want: I want a gray cloth cloak, 
and a gray satin bonnet with some red in it to 
light me up a little, and a few other extras. 
They will cost me eighteen dollars. You won’t 
have any expenses hardly — no rent to pay, and 
fuel enough, as you’re out most of the time. 
Couldn’t you let me have the eighteen dol- 
lars ?” 

Margareth did not give her time to plead that 
she ought to give her the money as a return for 
the bequest of Archie. 

Yes,” said Margareth. ‘‘ I draw my thirty 
dollars next week; you shall have eighteen of 
them.” 


CHAPTER Xyil. 


THE EBBING OF THE TIDE. 

“ As in strange lands a traveler walking slow, 
In doubt and great perplexity, 

A little before moonrise, hears the low 
Moan of an unknown sea.” 



RCHIE and Margareth were keeping house 


^ together. It was the first of March. There 
was no snow on the ground, but all the trees 
were bare; the grasses were dry and sere; the 
long growth of the marsh-lands was stiff and 
harsh, and rustled sharply as stirred by wind or 
tide. Archie and Margareth had been home 
some little while from afternoon school. The 
fire had been uncovered, and began to gleam 
brightly. The quaint, poor house was spotlessly 
neat. The portrait of Stella on the wall, the 
books on the stand or shelves made by E-ufus, 
the basket of “woman’s work” on the table, 
even the bright face of little crooked Archie, 
made the poor place homelike and attractive. 
Before the fireplace and beneath the table were 
mats with braided borders ; the bed at the far- 
ther end of the room was decorated with a white 


19 


289 


290 


ROLAND^ S DAUGHTER. 


counterpane and well-starched and frilled pillow- 
shams : Margareth, pursuing the thrifty plan of 
Harriet, had an agreement of exchange of sew- 
ing and washing with the best laundress of Welby 
Haven. The sun was shining brightly into the 
room. Margareth sat in the rocking-chair by 
the fire, her hands folded in her lap, resting; 
Archie, his chin just above the window-sill, was 
looking for matters of interest without, when he 
suddenly exclaimed, 

‘‘ Lady, there’s a tarriage ! Lady, the tarriage 
is turning up the tauseway.” 

Margareth concluded that at last Harriet might 
be coming to make her child a visit, as she had 
not seen him since her marriage. Margareth 
was thoroughly incensed at Harriet for her 
heartlessness, but still there was the sound of 
wheels at the door, and it would be well to rise 
and greet her guest cordially ; she left her place 
and looked out over Archie’s head. 

Before the door stood a coach from Welby 
Junction, out of which vehicle was cautiously 
backing a broad expanse of yellow fur with 
multitudinous swinging yellow tails. Below the 
fur, numerous black-merino ruffles; above it, 
numerous black-lace frills. Then something 
was lifted from the carriage and placed on the 
ground — a large fish-basket, from the square 
hole in the lid of which rose the benignant 
and brindled head of Thomas Henry. But 


THE EBBING OF THE TIDE. 


291 


now Mrs. Quincey was helping some one to 
alight, a tall, thin, bent form — Kufus. 

Margareth dashed from the door and clasped 
her arms about her brother, then, carefully sup- 
porting him, led him to her own seat by the fire 
and hastily took off his hat, his overcoat, his 
shoes, and brought him a pair of slippers. It 
was only when she had him leaning back rest- 
ing after being thus waited upon, and had pro- 
vided him with a cup of broth that had been 
simmering by the fire, that she could find time 
to say, 

‘‘Oh, Rufus, Rufus! are you here at last?” 
Then she remembered Mistress Quincey. The 
good dame had brought in her luggage and dis- 
missed the carriage. Margareth caught her by 
both hands : “ It is you who have brought him 
back to me ! What a comfort it is to see your 
good face once more 1” 

Mrs. Quincey planted herself on the hearth- 
I rug, her hands on her hips, her lifted elbows 
I spreading out her fur cloak like a pair of great 
yellow wings. She regarded Rufus : 

“So! Here we are. And chirk you look. 
Home and sea-air will do you good. You stood 
it first rate, Rufus. — Yes, Margareth, here we 
are. — Why, Thomas Henry ! Have I left you 
in your basket all this time ? Pray come here 
and sit before the fire and make yourself at home, 
like a well-bred young person. — Yes, Margareth, 


292 


ROLAND'S DAUGHTER. 


I brougiit our Thomas Henry this time ; a little 
travel is good for us all and improves our minds. 
I was sure there would he no corrupting influ- 
ences here to injure Thomas Henry. Your 
brother is home, my dear. There’s been a bat- 
tle and a victory ; I bring you back a hero. 
Yes, after the manner of men, he has fought 
with beasts at Ephesus — at least, which is about 
the same, with temptations in Boston. For if 
lions and tigers were any worse than the whisky- 
shops of our day, Mary Jane Quincey would be 
pleased to know it, that’s all. He’s fought his 
battle, he’s won his victory. He don’t come here 
over-strong in health, but he’s strong in spirit. 
He has found some things better than bodily 
health, and among them peace with God through 
our Lord Jesus Christ.” 

Margareth was turning first to one and then to 
the other. Drinking in every word she heard, 
one instant she took away the orator’s fur cloak 
and ruffled bonnet, and the next she relieved 
Bufus of the cup and spoon. 

‘‘I know you want to hear, and I want to 
tell,” said Mrs. Quincey. You see, when the 
boat was wrecked and you were nearly drowned, 
all seemed lost here, and he took a vow not to 
drink another drop. But he made up his mind 
to go off and fight his battle out alone and let 
you have a chance to get on better without him. 
That was his idea. So he went to Boston, and 


THE EBBING OF THE TIDE. 


293 


he looked and looked for work, and found none, 
until a man whom he had known oJfered him a 
place as bar-tender, and he took it. He worked 
in the bar, but he never drank a drop ; but, his 
head being clear to observe all the sin and shame 
and sorrow of the traffic, slowly it came into his 
mind that mayhap it was a sin to stand and sell 
it. And that idea grew, till one day — Now, 
Hufus, you tell that.’’ 

One day a lad of sixteen came in for liquor. 
I remembered what I had been at sixteen and 
how liquor had been my ruin, and I said, ‘ Out 
of this ! We’re not allowed to sell to minors.’ 
The owner of the saloon swore at me and said, 
‘ Give the fellow his drink ; his money’s as good 
as if he was forty.’ I poured it out mechanical- 
ly, but as I handed it over I caught the boy’s 
eye. I could not do it. I said, ‘ Boy, that ac- 
cursed stuff has ruined me. It has destroyed 
my health, my honor, eaten up my little proper- 
ty, broken my sister’s heart, disgraced my dead 
mother. It will sink your soul to hell. Never 
touch a drop of it, so help you God.’ With 
that the boss flew at me with a great oath and 
ordered me to leave ; so I picked up my port- 
manteau and two dollars that were due me, and 
the boy and I went out together. We went to 
his room — a poor place, but we grew to be friends. 
He joined a temperance society and got a fair 
situation. We lived together, and I picked up 


294 


ROLAND^S DAUGHTER. 


what jobs I could. But I was running down 
badly and could hardly drag about from day to 
day. One morning I went to the station, to get 
any little work I might, when I was called 
by Mrs. Quincey, who asked me to carry her 
valise — ’’ 

“ I didn’t know him,” broke in Mrs. Quincey, 
“ till, as we got near the street-car, I recognized 
him. Says I, ^ Bufus Boland, this is you, and 
you just put yourself aboard that car and come 
out to my house peaceably with me. If you don’t. 
I’ll call a policeman to fetch you along.’ So he 
came. The second day he broke down com-* 
pletely, and was mighty ill — that was the first 
of February — but he is better; and as soon as 
I thought he could stand it I brought him to 
you, as he was so eager to see you. And here 
we are. And, Margareth, where are the rest of 
them ?” 

‘‘ Stella has gone to heaven,” answered a soft 
voice — the voice of Archie, whom no one had 
yet noticed, and who had seated himself beside 
his old friend Thomas Henry. 

Bless the child !” cried Mrs. Quincey, catch- 
ing him up in her arms for a caress. — “ And little 
Stella is gone ?” 

“ And Harriet is married and has taken Persis 
with her.” 

“ I’m glad of it,” said Bufus, in his most posi- 
tive tones. 


THE EBBING OF THE TIDE. 295 

With Mrs. Quincey’s wrinkled, round, benevo- 
lent face smiling at her, and E-ufus leaning back 
in his chair and looking thoroughly happy, 
Margareth was inspired to see the cheerful side 
of life. So she told the tale of her stepmoth- 
er’s courtship and marriage settlements in a fash- 
ion to make her auditors laugh heartily. 

‘‘ I suppose you see her pretty constant ?” said 
Mrs. Quincey, 

I have not seen her once since,” said Marga- 
reth. ‘‘ But come, I must get supper. I just 
had some capital corned bluefish sent me.” 

‘‘And I must unpack my basket,” cried Mrs. 
Quincey. “ Margareth, there’s some of the finest 
honey you ever tasted — real mignonette and 
thyme honey ; I took it from my hive before 
I went to Washington last fall. And here’s some 
jelly that I made before I went. I always leave 
a fair supply of such notions in my house when 
I go ; they are nice to have to give away. And 
then, I always think, if I should be brought back 
sick or dead, how convenient it would be to have 
them on hand ! Did you ever see a prettier roll 
I of butter than that? I churned it this very 
morning. And these biscuit I baked to-day; 
your brother has got so spoiled eating my biscuit 
I don’t reckon he’ll take to anything else very 
soon. There can’t anybody come up to me in 
biscuit, Margareth, if I do say it. Now, there’s 
a tongue — a boiled tongue. Pretty, ain’t it ? I 


296 


BOLAND DAUGHTER. 


don’t know as I ever see a nicer boiled tongue. 
Seems made a-purpose to eat.” 

The plentiful supper was eaten and cleared 
away, and the little group sat down by the fire, 
Mrs. Quincey holding Archie. 

‘‘ And you’ve been alone here, Margareth, 
with the little chap, since early in January?” 
inquired E-ufus. “ How lonely !” 

“ It was, rather ; but Archie has been a real 
comfort, and I have been busy. Still, I often 
wonder what my life all means, and what I am 
to do with it.” 

‘‘ When a person is fixed just as you are, and 
is doing the only thing that can be done, it stops 
a terrible sight of worrying,” said Mrs. Quincey. 
‘‘ You see, in such a case, one has just to go on 
doing each day’s work as it comes — living by the 
hour, as you may say — and trusting the Lord to 
open the path and portion out the work for the 
next day. It is not in my mind, Margareth, that 
the Lord means you to live always in this poor, 
humble way ; he is putting you to school in this 
to learn the A B C of life. It is a true gift of 
God to be able to understand people, to sympa- 
thize with them, to console them. There’s noth- 
ing more terrible than a heart hardened by pros- 
perity, and perhaps the Lord is tutoring you in 
all these troubles, so that when prosperity comes 
you’ll not be injured by it.” 

“ That is a very encouraging way to think of 


THE EBBING OF THE TIDE. 297 

it,” said Margareth. “ But now that Bufus is 
home, and is a Christian man, I feel as if I had 
all I needed to be happy. — Do you get strong 
and well, Bufus, and we two will make a win- 
ning fight with the world yet.” 

By six next morning the indefatigable Mrs. 
Quincey was on her way to the beach, with 
Thomas Henry trotting at her heels like a pet 
dog. The good woman stopped and spoke to 
every one she met, and won the warm regards 
of every one to whom she spoke. To each one 
she told the tale of Bufus Boland’s return 
“ clothed and in his right mind,” and by noon 
it was known to every one in Welby Haven. 
Then the sturdy kindness of all those simple 
fisher-folk and seamen broke forth. One by 
one the men dropped in to shake Bufus by the 
hand and welcome him back with encouraging 
discourse : 

‘‘ Don’t be downhearted over the loss of your 
boat, Boland ; I’ve known men to lose more 
than one boat and yet come to own a fleet of 
five or six. If the Siren’s gone, the bass and 
the bluefish aren’t played out. This sea-air will 
bring you ’round hearty as a bear in no time, 
and then you can get a boat on shares, or buy 
one on time, or hire for the fishing this year 
and buy a boat the next. Oh, you’ll find a 
dozen ways of making your way in the world. 
Chirk up, man ! We’ll all stand by you.” 


298 


ROLAND^ S DAUGHTER. 


But when they went away, one and all shook 
their heads: 

He’s not long for this world, poor fellow ! 
Well, we must do the best we can for him and 
his sister. Perhaps he will hold out through 
the summer.” 

The women of the neighborhood came too — 
not in groups, but first one, then another. All 
had a warm welcome to give, all had kind words 
about Margareth ; and they came, and came 
again, two or three callers a day — not merely 
at first, but all the season. And they came 
bearing gifts. This one had a custard for which 
she modestly believed herself famous ; that one, 
new-laid eggs ; another, ‘‘ a fowl just right for 
cooking,” or a basket of apples, or some pickled 
fish morally certain to bring back an appetite,” 
or a ‘‘jar of beach plum preserves fit for a king,” 
or a ‘‘jelly that had cured a brother-in-law when 
he lay at the very gate of death.” In truth, 
Welby Haven overflowed in sympathy and 
kindly gifts. 

The only one who never came and never sent 
anything was Harriet. She seemed to think a 
complete severance from her late family indis- 
pensable. 

“To think,” cried the irate Mrs. Falconer, 
“ of how Margareth has worked for her and 
hers — nursed ’em, helped ’em, kept the little 
boy or she couldn’t have married Green, bought 


THE EBBING OF THE TIDE. 299 

her, if you’ll believe it, the very bonnet and 
cloak she stood up to be married in, and now 
she, with her cream and butter and apples and 
chickens and new-laid eggs to command, never 
comes a-nigh them nor sends one token ! Not 
that they’re in need : Margareth Roland is 
one of them that has a hundred and fifty cents 
in every dollar that passes through her fingers, 
and Welby Haven is noted far and wide for its 
goodness to sick folks.” 

Yes, Welby Haven left nothing to be desired, 
and its gifts and attentions quite forestalled any 
need of the recusant Harriet. 

Mrs. Quincey stayed two weeks, and when she 
left had the warmest invitations to visit every 
house in Welby Haven and stay a week. 

Rufus grew a little better and could walk in 
the sunshine about the solid ground near the 
cottage and some distance along the causeway. 
Saturdays and Sundays were happy days, be- 
cause then Margareth was home from school all 
the time ; but other days went well, for Marga- 
reth came home for an hour at noon, and Mrs. 
Falconer brought her sewing and sat with Rufus 
every afternoon until school was out, and every 
morning little Archie was left to take care of 
him. 

Those mornings with Archie were not the 
least pleasant hours of Rufus’s closing life. 
Margareth left everything convenient for their 


300 


ROLAND'S DAUGHTER. 


comfort — the fire piled up, the drink ready for 
checking E-ufus’s cough — and then, when they 
were alone, Archie dragged his high-chair beside 
the big rocker of Eufus, and, climbing to his 
seat, brought his small beautiful face on a level 
with that of his brother. Good friends, these 
two brothers — nineteen years between them, the 
one a wrecked Hercules, the other a little hump- 
back, neither of them with much of earth-life 
before him. They understood each other, 

‘‘ Eufus, you’ll see your mother when you get 
to heaven. Won’t you, Eufus? Lady says she’s 
up there.” 

‘‘Yes, I’ll see her. She went when I was 
your age, Archie. I remember, before she went, 
she took me in her arms and kissed me and 
prayed for me. She’ll be very glad to see me, 
I think.” 

“ Course ! And will she like to see me, Eu- 
fus ? I’ll be all straight, you know. Will she 
like me? You’ll tell her who I am, won’t you ? 
Of course, up there, everybody loves all the 
other bodies, but I’d like some one to know me in 
particular, Eufus — yes, particular.” 

“ She will love you, little chap ; I make sure 
of it.” 

“And Lady’s mother, Eufus. Lady says she 
used to love you, and Lady knows she will love 
me very much because Lady does. She’ll be 
glad to see you, won’t she ?” 


THE EBBING OF THE TIDE. 


301 


‘‘Yes, indeed! There is one more; she will 
welcome us both/’ 

“ Then, you see. I’ll have two new mothers up 
in heaven. And I’ll be straight. Do you think 
I’ll grow there, Rufus ? I’d like some time to 
be as tall as you. Don’t you think, Rufus, it 
would be very nice if you and I were two tall 
angels, all in white and very shining, walking 
through the sky ? Will I grow there, Rufus ?” 

“ There’s a verse you will like, little chap ; it 
says : 

“ ‘ Not as a child shall we again behold her ; 

But when, with rapture wild, 

In our embraces we again enfold her. 

She will not be a child.’ 


Yes, I think you will grow, little man.” 

“ That ’members me of Stella, Rufus. Stella 
will be up there to see us. I ’most think she’ll 
be the first one to come flying out to meet us. 
You know Stella loved you and me, Rufus. 
Don’t you guess Stella will be the very prettiest 
of all the little angels up there ?” 

“ It seems as if she must be,” answered Rufus, 
his eyes on the portrait on the wall. 

“And, Rufus, I’ve got something nice in my 
pocketbook,” said Archie, with importance, tug- 
ging out of his pocket a minute pocketbook — 
one of Rufus’s former gifts to him. He opened 
it and drew forth a bit of printed paper. “I 
found it, and I kept it because it was poetry — I 


302 


ROLAND^ S DAUGHTER. 


always love poetry — and Lady reads it to me. 
I could read the words, you know, Rufus, only I 
can’t make a sound full for it. You will read it 
to me, Rufus?” 

Rufus unfolded the fragment and read aloud : 

“ He stood alone, wrapped in divinest wonder ; 

He saw the pearly gates and jasper walls 
Informed with light, and heard the far-off thunder 
Of chariot-wheels and mighty waterfalls. 

“ And, throned within the glittering empyrean, 

A golden palm-branch in his kingly hand, 

He saw his Lord, the gracious Galilean, 

Amid the worship of his myriads stand.” 

There! That’s what we’ll see. We can 
’most hear it,” cried Archie, in whose short life 
earth missed a poet. I can feel just how it 
looks. Won’t you like very much, Rufus, to see 
the tree that has twelve kinds of fruit and bears 
fruit every month ? I wonder if all the kinds 
are on at once, or one sort every month ?” 

‘‘You will find out there, Archie, for you will 
have a right to eat of it. You know the verse 
is, ‘ They have a right to the tree of life, and 
shall enter in through the gates into the city.’ ” 

“And there’s the sea of glass mingled with 
fire ; I see just how that looks too. I have seen 
the ocean so, all flat and still, and the bright 
sparkles deep in it. Don’t you think it would 
be nicer, Rufus, if, some evening when the sky 
is all red and gold, we could take hold of hands 


TBE EBBING OF THE TIDE. 


303 


and walk right in and up — up, right along by 
all the clouds? Persis says, ^No; you’d fall,’ 
and all that. I don’t think Persis knows so very 
much. Seems to me, Rufus, I could walk bet- 
ter up there than down here. Persis don’t want 
to go there at all. But then Persis is straight 
and can run, and she likes cows and chickens. 
Now, I like better the things I see up in the 
clouds.” 

May brought a little reviving of strength to 
Rufus. Mrs. Falconer came in Mrs. Wagstaif’s 
buggy and drove him and Archie out a few times. 
That was unspeakable joy to Archie, who had 
never had a ride before except in his little wick- 
er carriage. 

The school-year, against the brevity of which 
Trustee Wagstaff railed, seemed interminable to 
Margareth. She longed to devote herself entire- 
ly to Rufus. 

This was, no doubt, the happiest period of 
Rufus Roland’s life. All that neighborly kind- 
ness, good nursing, cheerfulness, luxuries, could 
do to give him ease was done. The battle was 
fought out. By God’s grace he had conquered, 
although he died. There were no terrors for the 
future : there was only peace. He was at rest in 
Christ, his Saviour. The little cottage on the salt 
marsh was a fragment of Beulah Land, and its 
outlook was upon the gates of heaven. 

With the middle of June the school closed, 


304 


ROLAND^S DAUGHTER. 


and with a sigh of relief Margareth handed Mr. 
Wagstaff the key. After that she was beside 
Rufus all the time. Some one lent him a roll- 
ing-chair, so that he could be taken out into the 
sun and watch the full-sailed ships, sometimes 
fifty at once in sight along the horizon, or the 
gulls screaming down the sky, white as driven 
snow against the blue. 

And thus the month of June passed in peace 
and beauty, while Margareth and her brother 
walked hand in hand in a solemn joy “ the down- 
ward slope of death.” 


CHAPTER Xyill. 


ALL ALONE IN THE NIGHT. 

“ And she saw wingM wonders move within, 

And she heard sweet talking, as they meant 
To comfort her: they said, ‘Who comes to-night 
Shall certainly some day an entrance win.’ ” 

T he heat of early July brought back the 
‘‘summer guests’’ to the cottages on the 
Bluffs. New paint gleamed in the morning 
sun ; the storm doors and windows were off, and 
freshly-polished glass reflected the glowing rays; 
the baskets, boxes, tubs, pots, of geraniums, nas- 
turtiums, coleus and other hardy plants were set 
in order along terraces and porches. The hotel 
was in full bustle ; the band played once a week 
in the pavilion ; .the pleasure-boats were let loose 
from winter captivity, and, gorgeous in new cush- 
ions and awnings, floated as gay as a covey of 
summer ducks on the bay. 

Among the rest, the villa of the Denhams 
aroused from its winter sleep. The white dra- 
peries softly filled and floated out the open win- 
dows, the balconies were soon decorated with 
parti-colored rugs and embroidered table-covers. 
The baggageman delivered trunks and the gro- 

20 305 


306 


ROLAND^ S DAUGHTER. 


cer’s van unladed groceries, and for a day or so 
the rotating lines at the rear of the house 
bloomed heavily with red-striped and blue- 
striped blankets under the spell of a high-tur- 
baned black woman. 

One day the mail was brought up and de- 
livered to Mrs. Denham as she stood on the 
veranda, and she sat down there to read it. 
The letter first opened was from Alex : 

“Mother Beloved: We are coming home. 
When you get this, we shall be near New York, 
and we will follow our epistle within three or 
four days. I think my sister has enough of 
German accent ; if not, she is willing to forego 
being thoroughly accomplished. And here I 
dare not decry lest I denounce myself as inartis- 
tic, but I know where I could find a face more 
beautiful than any that these old masters painted. 
In fact, mother dear, it is of no use ! I have no 
whim or passing fancy for Margareth Boland ; 
she is to me the one woman in all the world — at 
which statement I know you will not take um- 
brage, and my sister does not hear it. If Mar- 
gareth had a dozen unfortunate brothers and 
fifty little stepsisters, I should not let the encum- 
brance of the entire lot weigh with me against 
Margareth herself. If she will speak peaceably 
unto me, I am a happy man. She never did, 
but she may after due persuasion. I do not 


ALL ALONE IN THE NiGHT. 


307 


think I should have difficulty in convincing her 
of my sincerity, hut she is the kind of girl who 
in present circumstances would be likely to con- 
sider this a family affair. Therefore, my dear 
mother, go and negotiate in my behalf. Do your 
best for me ; and if you find there is no prospect 
there of my happiness, meet us at New York, 
and we will go into the Adirondacks until in 
your society I learn to accept my fate quietly. 
If you are not waiting for us when the steamer 
gets in, we will come home. 

Your 

‘‘Alex.’’ 

The young man had made himself clear, and 
his dutiful mother, after the fashion of American 
parents, began to consider how best he could have 
his own way. She lifted her eyes and looked 
across the levels to that cottage on the marshes 
toward which her son’s thoughts were so persist- 
ently turning. Across the causeway she saw 
winding a funeral train; a chill terror struck 
her heart. What might this be? Luther, the 
black factotum of Wei by Ha ven, was busy close 
at hand trimming up her terraces. She called 
him : 

“ Luther, whose funeral is that on the cause- 
way ?’^ 

“ That will be the burying of young Mr. Ru- 
fus Roland. You may mind he was one of the 


308 


ROLAND^S DAUGHTER. 


fishermen here for a couple of years, though not 
born to that line of life. His boat was wrecked 
last autumn, and he and his sister just missed 
being drowned. After that he went off, and no 
one heard of him all winter. Well, along in 
March, ma’am, he was brought back by about 
the queerest old lady ever you saw. She wore 
a yellow-fur cape with nigh a thousand — more 
or less — ^tails a-swinging all around it, and she 
had a big brindle-cat carried in a basket. I 
don’t reckon there was ever a queerer body here 
in Welby, but I’ll make bold to bet, ma’am, 
there never was one much better — an old friend 
of the Rolands, as it came out. Seems the young 
man ran off determined to reform or die, and so 
it was he has done both, ma’am. He’d rather 
broke himself up with hard early drinking, and 
his father before him was worse; so he had 
turned over a new leaf, when this old lady found 
him sick and nursed him a while, and brought 
him here to his sister. Welby Haven folk ain’t 
any small show when any one is sick among 
them, ma’am; and if Roland had been son to 
Queen Vic, he couldn’t have had better care. 
The young lady is just a picture and a chapter ; 
she was like an angel to him. They all say he 
made a most uncommon good end. That little 
lame man trottin’ along ahead of the hearse, 
ma’am, he’s an old preacher that lives betwixt 
here and the junction ; he’s been very attentive 


ALL ALONE IN THE NIGHT. 


309 


to young E-oland, and IVe heard say he found a 
great amount of satisfaction in his state of mind. 
The young man just dropped off beautiful, like 
going to sleep. Of course, ma’am,’’ continued 
Luther, taking an argumentative tone and lean- 
ing complacently on the handle of his sod-cut- 
ter, ‘‘ everybody allows that it is better to be in 
heaven than in this world, but I make a point 
that there is some folks has so poor a chance for 
getting on well in this world that it is most un- 
common good fortune for them to get safe out of 
it, and into heaven. One of them was young 
Roland. There’s a great many of us inclined to 
find fault with the ways of Providence, and 
fancy, if we had the ordering of here a bit and 
there a bit, we could make things come out pretty 
well. The trouble, I take it, would be that our 
bits wouldn’t fit the plan of God’s providence for 
the whole, and in our handling the whole wouldn’t 
come out judgematically. I admire to see how 
well the Lord knows what he is about in man- 
aging matters. I mind, ma’am, when this place 
up here on the Bluffs was laid out by the com- 
pany, and the surveyors and the landscape-gar- 
deners was here, I, in my private mind, faulted a 
good deal their style of doing things, and con- 
sidered that they planted out their boundary- 
pegs rather permiscuous, and that I could have 
taken a ten-foot pole an’ laid out a settlement to 
better effect. That was merely because I didn’t 


310 


ROLAND’S DAUGHTER. 


know, and I was too narrer-educated a man to 
appreciate their doings. However, when it was 
al] done, and the houses rose up, and the curves 
and corners and circles and avenues got clear, I 
threw up my hat as high as anybody. I reckon 
that is about what we’ll all come to in the next 
world, only it will be crowns, not hats, that will 
be flying there.” 

‘‘ Really, Luther, you can give a capital ser- 
mon,” said Mrs. Denham, withdrawing her eyes 
from following the funeral procession, which had 
now wound out of sight. 

I’m an exhorter in my connection,” said Lu- 
ther, with modesty, squaring off the corner of a 
sod. 

‘^And who are left in that family now, Lu- 
ther ?” 

“ There ain’t much family left,” said Luther ; 
“between death and marrying, they’re nigh 
about gone.” 

“ ^ Marrying ’ !” cried Mrs. Denham, once 
more alarmed. 

“ Yes, ma’am. Pretty nigh a year ago the 
father. Professor Roland, he got drownded in 
the ma’sh ; then, just after the wreck, the 
smallest child just died quiet one day, like as 
she had suddenly remembered it was time for 
her to go home ; and next thing was the stej)- 
mother of this young man — widow to the pro- 
fessor, she was — she up and married a farmer 


ALL ALONE IN THE NIGHT. 


311 


named Green, living over at Gray Point. You’ll 
be surprised, ma’am, at such doings ; but when 
she concluded, she says cool to Miss Poland that 
she’d take along with her to her new home the 
oldest of her children — a spry little girl likely 
to be some help — and Miss Poland should keep 
the other child, a little fellow with a twist in his 
back. I heard that Mrs. Falconer said the wid- 
der used all her own earnings and a month 
school-pay of Miss Poland’s in fixing herself 
out, and off she went and never came back since. 
She hasn’t shown no gratitude to Miss Poland, 
nor ever come to say a word to this poor sick 
young man, who had give her and her children 
equal with himself of all he had. She never 
called even to see her own child that she forsook. 
I’ve come across a grist of small little things 
when digging in the ground, some of ’em no 
bigger nor a pin’s point, but I never did find 
nothing so small as some folks’ souls ; and that’s 
what I tells ’em at our chapel when they let the 
contribution-box go by while they looks at flies 
on the ceiling. Yes, ma’am, she went flourish- 
ing off, and never come back to look after her 
own feeble child. There’s women and women 
in this yere world, that’s sure — asking your par- 
don, ma’am.” 

‘‘And the young lady, then, is not married?” 

“ She married ! Law, ma’am ! Who is there 
round here is a fit match for the like of her?” 


312 


BOLAND\S DAUGHTER, 


Mrs. Denham pocketed her letters and went 
into the house. 

“ I reckon the madam’s heard tell of company 
coming,” said the junior servant to the senior. 
“ She told me to leave that lace I was a-doing 
up, and she made me get out the best toilette- 
fixin’s and the down quilt and the new lace cur- 
tains, and no end of fancy things, and dress up 
the spare-room. I warn you she was that partic- 
ular and so right straight ahead with it I haven’t 
caught my breath this two hours. And now the 
madam’s dressing ; I went there for some thread, 
and see. her things laid out. There’s her best 
black-silk dress on the bed, and a lace collar and 
a diamond pin on the dressing-table, and the 
madam is doing things up in style, whatever she 
has in mind ; and a handsome lady too, when 
all’s said.” 

Thus Mistress' Denham was preparing her 
panoply of state to sally forth as ambassadress 
extraordinary for her son. 

“ Whatever she sets hand to she’ll carry out,” 
said the senior servant to the junior ; but madam 
quietly ate a state supper alone, and the stage 
came in and brought her no guests. 

Then, as the twilight closed, the two maids, 
sitting on the steps of the back door, beheld 
their mistress, a cloud of Shetland shawl about 
her head and shoulders, her rustling black silk 
gathered up in one shapely old hand, move out 


ALL ALONE IN THE NIGHT. 


313 


along the sidewalk by the Bluff villas, and then 
turn down the hill, where millions of daisies 
gleamed white in the grass ; and so she disap- 
peared at a stately pace. 

Across the turnpike and upon the causeway 
marched Madam Denham. Before her shone a 
low red star or beacon — the firelight from the 
cottage on the marshes. The door was closed, 
but the window was open and uncurtained, for 
the summer night was warm, though for health 
and cheerfulness Margareth always kept up 
an evening blaze in her home among the 
waters. 

As Mistress Denham drew near the cottage, 
through the open window the entire interior was 
revealed to her as it often had been to her loiter- 
ing son. Poor and plain, yet was it a home, and 
not a habitation merely. Death had passed 
through there of late — an expected guest; and 
if he had left loneliness, he had left neither 
wreck nor desolation. All was peaceful, orderly. 
The large chair by the hearth had a footstool 
before it and a stand at one side, and on the 
stand an open book and a jar filled with water- 
lilies. This was as Rufus had left it when he 
fell on sleep, and Margareth could not yet dis- 
turb it. On the window-sill was a willow work- 
basket with a child’s coat partly finished in it. 
In the centre of the room was the large table, 
and on that a pitcher with a vast bouquet of white 


314 


ROLAND'S DAUGHTER. 


daisies ; a spreading pyramid of gold and snow, 
they rose above the bowed head of Margareth. 
The hour of unutterable loneliness had come to 
her. Suddenly over her heart had swept the 
realization of her silent, forsaken lot — that she 
stood alone to meet the world. Her brother was 
gone from her: she could not wish him back, 
but she was left bereaved of all her kindred ; and 
the strong heart yielded in the silence of the 
night, and over it swept grief like a fathomless 
and shoreless sea. There was no one near to 
offer the platitudes of consolation ; she could 
abandon herself for a little while to sorrow — to 
the accumulated sorrow of years. She had flung 
her arms upon the table, then clasped her hands 
and bowed her head upon them ; her golden 
hair, loosened by its own weight, rolled its heavy 
masses over her arms ; and this gold of her hair 
and the snow of her hands and bent neck lay 
under the white and gold of the gathered dai- 
sies. 

Madam Denham marked the abandonment 
of the strong, beautiful figure in the lines of the 
black dress ; she saw that bending form shaken 
with the stormy passion of smothered sobs. So 
young and so forsaken ! All the mother-heart 
was moved within her. She may have, and she 
may have not, prepared her plea and chosen 
words for her present mission ; at all events, she 
never used them. She tapped on the door, and, 


ALL ALONE IN THE NIGHT. 


315 


as her summons was not heard, she opened it and 
entered. 

Hearing a soft footfall, Margareth turned her 
head, expecting that this might be Mrs. Falconer, 
and saw instead Mrs. Denham. She had not 
time to rise or wonder, for the lady bent over 
her, laid a soft hand on her shoulder and said, 

Margareth, my dear girl, come away from this 
horrible loneliness. Come home with me and 
be my daughter and then, as Margareth lifted 
her head, Mrs. Denham laid the letter before her 
on the table. 

The girl read it twice. Then she looked up, 
a rosy color flushing her cheeks. 

‘‘ Dear child,’^ said Mrs. Denham, you will 
not send me to the Adirondacks? You will be 
my daughter? I offer you a mother’s love.” 

“ Some time — perhaps — ” began Margareth, 
with hesitating words. 

Not some time, but now. Come ! you have 
lived in the shadows and seen sorrow too long. 
Come, my child, and we will strive to make you 
happy.” 

‘'You are good — so good!” said Margareth, 
gently ; “ but how can I ? See, I am not alone.” 
She rose, and Mrs. Denham saw what had been 
concealed on the other side of the table — the 
low cradle in which slept Archie. 

Mrs. Denham had quite forgotten the child, 
but as she looked at the pretty little white face 


316 


ROLAND^S DAUGHTER, 


in its peaceful slumber she seemed to see above 
it in golden letters on the air, ‘‘ Whoso receiveth 
one such little one in my name receiveth me/’ 

Margareth,” she said, “ I think both my 
heart and my home are large enough to shelter 
this little child. We will make an exchange : I 
give you my son, and you will give this little 
one to me.” 

Then just as you wish it,” said Margareth — 
some time, after a while, in a few weeks.” 

I wish nothing of the kind,” said Madam 
Denham, with placid insistance ; I mean now. 
My home is ready, my heart is ready. I have 
been alone up there with my maids, but I will 
be so no longer. There is nothing for you to do 
but to come back with me now. You can take 
the little one, turn the key in the door and come 
with me. It is not far ; we can take the child 
easily.” 

Margareth did not say another word. She 
rose, covered the fire on the hearth, closed the 
windows, took the sleeping child in her vigorous 
young arms, and over the causeway and across 
the high-road and up the slope of daisies went 
the two women, from the cottage on the marshes 
to the cottage on the height. 

7(i ^ 


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